


A Chronicle of Maedhros

by Alexander_Watson



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Canon Compliant, Fanfiction, Gay, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Lord of The Rings, Silmarils, Spoilers for The Silmarillion, Suicide, Torture, Writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 17:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30109704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Watson/pseuds/Alexander_Watson
Summary: An account of Maedhros, son of Feänor, and his time upon Arda. Following from his years of capture and torture in Angband until his death, Maedhros struggles with himself, his deeds, depression, PTSD, and suicide, as well as with the Oath of his father and of himself. But for all the darkness that surrounds him, they may yet be those who bring out the light.Gay romance, gore and violence, sexual themes, lots and lots of blood, and of course, good old death. Canon compliant with J. R. R. Tolkien's The Silmarillion. A little project I've been working on.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Maedhros | Maitimo/Sauron | Mairon, Maedhros | Maitmo & Maglor | Makalaurë & Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8
Collections: Private





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: THIS FIC IS UNDERGOING EXTENSIVE REVISIONS. MAJOR INACCURACIES—I WILL BE GOING THROUGH AND CHANGING ALMOST EVERYTHING! I ADVISE YOU CHECK BACK LATER—PROCEED WITH CAUTION!

Maedhros sat silently in the dim light of the spacious tent, hair loose over his bare shoulders as he gazed, unseeing, at the flimsy walls. The quiet but perpetual bustle of the camp wafted around him, a gentle wind pushing against the fabric. The chill nipped at his skin, but he liked it, these moments of peace before the time of stoicism and kingship. His mind lingered briefly on the image of his father, the commanding figure who had last borne the title of King, his idol for many years. The deep grief that had plagued him since his father’s death seeped to the surface. The images of that terrible spasm of coughs that had caused his father to convulse on the ground swam before his gaze, himself worried and scared by his father’s side. The once proud, tall figure lay beaten and bloody on the ground. He felt his father push against him, shouting to let him stand. There was such a light of uncontrollable madness in Feänor’s eyes that he had stood back, letting him stagger to his feet. Blood flowed through his fingers clutched to his stomach. Maedhros heard his father’s last screams echoing in his ears, that terrible curse surely tearing at his throat, a line of blood dripping from his mouth. Maedhros remembered the sudden heat and flash of flame as his father perished, diminished to a few pieces of ashes drifting on the slow wind. He remembered the shock of grief, his ragged breaths, the disbelief on his face mirrored in those of his brothers. He remembered feeling, almost tangibly, the weight of his father’s title fall upon his shoulders, six pairs of fearful eyes turning to him. His grief seemed to still for a brief second, the weight of responsibility pushing his shoulders back and turning his face turning upwards, strength he did not know he had flooding to him. Now was not the time for insecurity. They looked to him as their brother, their leader, their king. And he would guide them. 

He stood with a sigh, closing his grief back up inside, gently pushing the blankets back and folding them neatly at the end of the rough cot. He rose to his full height, reaching up to brush the top of the tent with his palms, his muscles stretching refreshingly. His breath escaped him as he came back down, swinging his arms and rolling his head. With another sigh he crossed to where he had laid out his clothes and armor, picking up his shirt and sliding it over his head, pulling his hair through the neck hole and shaking it out so it fell in tangled waves down his back, dark in the dim light. As he pulled on his pants and boots, a shadow passed across the walls of the tent, the wind of its arrival causing the fabric to ripple like water. It paused outside the flap. 

“Maitimo? Are you awake?” a quiet voice spoke, sounding small in the sounds of the camp. 

“Yes, Macalaurë. You can come in,” he answered, pulling his boots up around his calves. The figure hesitated for a moment, then drew aside the tent flap and stepped softly inside. His brother’s slim figure stood before him, hands clasped behind his back, his face unreadable in the shadows, but his body language stiff and nervous. 

“What is wrong, Maca?” Maedhros said, casting a worried glance at his brother as he picked up his tunic. “Do you need me for something? You were supposed to be getting some sleep.”

“No, I just could not find any rest,” Maglor said, shifting awkwardly. “Lying in bed awake was not doing me much good.” He was quiet, watching Maedhros slide his tunic over his head and shake out his hair again, fastening a belt around his waist. Maedhros turned to face his brother, looking at him critically. 

“Maca, what is wrong? You would not come to me if you could simply not sleep.” 

There was silence, the wind blowing gently through the tent, the flickering torchlight from outside casting a dim orange glow over them. Maglor suddenly lifted his head, looking to his brother.

“I am worried about you, Nelyo,” he said, his brow furrowing. “Morgoth is clever. He will not treat this as a fair meeting. There will surely be treachery at work. We have already lost our father, and I do not know what would happen if we lost you. I….” he sighed, then looked back up at Maedhros. “I cannot get the pictures out of my head. I am fearful for you.”

Maedhros stepped towards his brother, taking his shoulders. “Stop,” he commanded, not unkindly, “please, Maca. I know what to expect. Do you not think I worry about you, as well?” 

“I don’t know, I—” he sighed and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “What I wanted to say is, be safe,” he finished, looking his brother steadily in the eyes. Maedhros paused, his brows creasing slightly, then pulled his brother into a hug, each holding the other tightly. 

“I will. I promise,” Maedhros said softly, his breath warm on Maglor’s shoulder. They both clung to each other for another moment, then pulled back, standing upright once again, Maedhros turning back to his armor. “Will you help me finish putting this on?” 

“Of course,” Maglor answered, stepping up to help him buckle on his breastplate. 

“We will meet once more before I set out,” Maedhros said, strapping on his armguards, “to go over defenses and supplies. We all need to stand together, and I want to make sure that we are all in concordance on our current state.” 

“Good. Tight enough?” 

“Yes, thank you.” 

“Would you like me to do your hair?” 

“If you don’t mind.” 

Maglor smiled. “I don’t have anything else to do. Here, sit down,” he said, picking up the hardy comb from the table where the armor had sat and walking to the cot. Maedhros picked up his shinguards and followed, seating himself in front of his brother and sitting upright as Maglor started to run the comb through his hair, the torchlight playing along the walls of the tent. 

“Did you sleep well?” Maglor asked conversationally, separating a section to work through, grasping the comb tightly and stringing out the knots. 

“No worse than the past few nights,” Maedhros sighed, setting his leg on the cot and setting the shinguard in place to strap it on. 

“Not good, then,” Maglor answered, a smile heard in his voice. 

“Not good,” Maedhros agreed. 

They sat quietly, Maedhros checking his armor, Maglor combing through the thick lengths of his brother’s rich auburn hair. Finally, Maglor sat back with a sigh, admiring the smooth waves of red hair falling softly down his brother’s back to his waist. 

“Would you like me to braid it?” he asked, setting the comb aside. 

“Yes, please,” Maedhros said, enjoying the quietness of his brother’s presence and the gentleness of his touch. Maglor scooted closer, splitting the hair into three parts, swiftly twisting the sides before deftly braiding the three thick ropes together, the tight braid falling in an intricate twist down the wrought armor. Quickly tying the end with a piece of fabric, he once again sat back to admire his handiwork. 

“Finished?” Maedhros asked, blinking as he surfaced from his thoughts. 

“Yes,” Maglor said, smiling. “I hope it looks good.” 

“Oh, of course it does,” Maedhros said, turning to look at him and grasping his hand. “Thank you, again.” 

“You are welcome.” Maglor said, smiling into his brother’s brightened face before they both rose and turned to the tent flap, the sounds of the camp echoing through the quiet space. Maedhros swung on his cape. 

“Well, here we go,” he sighed, standing briefly at Maglor’s side before throwing aside the fabric and striding into the light outside. 

It struck his hair, the bright auburn shining in the torchlight so it seemed he was crowned with fire. His armor gleamed with rich shades of red and orange, gold flickering on the wrought edges. He looked very much the part of king, Maglor thought to himself, his face noble and proud, his hair flowing down his back and his cape spreading behind him, his steps sure and firm. In that moment, he seemed invincible, fit enough to stand against all the forces of Angband and even Morgoth himself, coming out to stand on top, shining and victorious. And yet, Maglor still feared for his brother. 

“Greetings, Your Highness,” spoke several voices as the two wove in between tents to the largest one, which they used as the center of their operations. Maedhros nodded cordially back, a smile touching his face, stopping to talk with a few soldiers to make sure that they would be ready to leave soon. Maglor stood respectfully by, faithfully waiting at his brother’s shoulder. He nodded and conversed with those who spoke to him, but all those who saw him observed that he seemed distracted and worried. 

Perhaps he had a premonition of what was to come. 

It was not until almost an hour later that the seven brothers gathered in the tent around the strong wooden table, all rather subdued and anxious. Finally, Maedhros spoke, his voice still holding its commanding edge despite his familiarity with his brothers. 

“We will be ready to leave as soon as we finish here. It will take some time to reach the place where we are scheduled to treat with Morgoth, but if all goes well, we should return before long. I want to make sure that we all know what is going on, so that, if anything happens--” he looked steadily around the room, his eyes lingering for a moment upon Maglor, “--we have a plan for what to do next. Agreed?” The brothers looked around the table, then nodded. Caranthir opened his mouth to say something, but closed it hastily and looked darkly at the table. No one else noticed. Maglor did. 

They went over the plans for the camp, the different divisions and strengths of the groups and families, and the plans on where to move the people should attack or other come upon them. Soon, everything was clear, and Maglor’s anxious thoughts slowed somewhat. Before they could depart, though, Caranthir’s unquiet finally broke through. 

“Please, Maitimo, why go alone, with only a few soldiers to accompany you?” he said angrily, “Why not take one, or two, or all of us? Surely that would make a larger impression upon Morgoth, in negotiations or battle!” 

“I would remind you, Atarince, that it is not ‘a few soldiers,’ but rather a most of our troops,” Maedhros said civilly, “We are already taking double the number Morgoth expects. He thinks we are weak, but he is wrong. They will be enough, but if, and only if, anything happens, we cannot all be there. What would become of the people if Morgoth slew us all?” Maedhros sighed, his face growing sorrowful for the first time in days. “I go alone to keep you safe. You must continue to carry out father’s oath. We all must.” 

“But surely that is no reason to keep us  _ all _ here,” Curufin broke in, “Could not one of us go?”

“Or two of us,” Amrod spoke up, exchanging a grin with his twin, “I must say, we would look very fine flanking you.” 

“On two white horses on either side of yours? Morgoth himself would be dazzled,” Amras laughed. 

“Please, this is not the time for laughter,” Maglor said. He turned to Maedhros. “I trust your decision,” he said firmly, placing his heart behind his words, “You are the leader of us all, and what you say makes sense and is the safest option. I do not like it, but I will stand beside you.” He glared good-naturedly around the table. “And all who don’t shall be forced to have me sing in their ear until they apologize!” 

The brothers smiled, Maedhros lifting his gaze from where it rested on the table. 

“I know that the road is dangerous, and I know the risks that we take. But we must remember that Morgoth has not yet given us cause to doubt him. If he does surrender, then our father will not have died in vain, and our oaths will be fulfilled. We can at least give him a chance, but if he decides to betray us, we will be ready.” His steady eyes swept the table. “I am prepared for what may come. You all are strong and can handle what comes your way. Take good care of our people while I am gone, and know that my trust rests with each of you.” 

They nodded, silent, then stepped up to him and shook his hand or clapped him on the back or gently squeezed his shoulder, words of faithfulness and good luck exchanged sincerely. Watching their retreating backs, Maedhros smiled to himself, then started towards where the horses were kept. He stopped by the weapons tent, retrieving his sword, shield and daggers. Attendants helped him with his weapons, strapping on the elegant blades and handing him his wrought shield, his helm under his arm, the attendants bowing to him. 

“May the grace of the Valar go with you,” one said respectfully. Maedhros smiled wryly. 

“What little we have left,” he remarked, then thanked them and turned from the tent, sliding his helm onto his head, his auburn hair trailing from it down his back, his cloak swirling behind him. 

His horse was already prepared, his soldiers waiting for him. He checked to make sure his supplies and arms were secured, then strapped his shield to his saddle and prepared to mount his horse. 

“Here,” a voice said suddenly, and he found Maglor beside him, holding the reins. 

“Thank you,” Maedhros said gratefully, swinging himself upwards and settling himself into the saddle, the horse prancing slightly. Maglor spoke softly to it, stroking its nose and running his fingers through the forelock. 

“You will take care of yourself,” he said to his brother, the fear he felt only showing through his eyes, the rest of his face smooth and calm. “I will eagerly await your return.” 

“I will return as swiftly as I can. I will be safe, I promise you,” Maedhros said with a smile. “Until then.” They exchanged a deep glance, then Maglor nodded and released the horse’s reins. Maedhros glanced behind himself at the large party ready to ride out, nudging his horse forwards into a brisk trot. 

Maglor watched his brother’s retreating back, his auburn braid falling across his cloak, his shining helm gleaming bright in the light of the torches. The long, long line of riders followed quickly behind, armor gleaming and weapons shining. Morgoth would be brave indeed if he tried to attack them, Maglor thought to himself, but once again, he could not shake the uneasiness that lingered in the pit of his stomach. 

Perhaps he had a premonition of what was to come. 

  
  


Maedhros rode at the front of the column, back tall and straight, rocking with the motion of his horse’s canter, flanked by two soldiers. They would slow soon, but he wanted to get a good distance between them and their camp. His cloak fluttered out behind him, glints of light flashing off of his armor and saddlery, the tops of their standards glistening. Clouds of mist shrouded the path, blackened and twisted trees sprinkling the side of the road as they passed over the low hills. They would be coming to the mountains soon. Maedhros raised his hand and reigned in his horse, the others behind him slowing to a prancing walk. 

“We will be entering the mountains,” he called to his company, “Keep a sharp watch. Do not let your guard down, and stay close. Morgoth may not keep to his bargaining. We must be ready—remember, we most likely outmatch him. We can beat him.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” came the replies from behind him, and Maedhros turned back to the front, spurring his horse into a brisk walk. His every sense was on high alert, his eyes scanning the path in front and the land around for any flicker of movement. His hands were steady on the reins, but his horse felt his tension and tossed his head nervously. 

“Shhhhh,” Maedhros whispered, bending down to stroke his horse’s neck and glancing behind himself, “shhhh. You’re fine, my friend. Quiet now.”

His horse tossed his head again, and Maedhros gave him another pat before straightening once again in the saddle. 

“Your Highness--” one of the soldiers flanking him said suddenly, his voice full of tension. Maedhros’ hand leapt to his sword hilt, adrenaline flooding through him. 

“No--stay your hand. I only thought I saw something. I apologize,” the soldier amended, his gaze flicking down. 

“No need,” Maedhros said, relaxing only slightly, “We are all tense.” The soldier nodded, turning to face ahead again. Maedhros looked him over to make sure all was well, then shifted forwards as well. It was silent, no birds here to sing from the twisted trees, no deer to leap through the mist. The brown and cracked earth crunched beneath the horses’ hooves, rocks and boulders littering the uneven ground, their torchlight seeming to become weaker and weaker. Mist swirled in long fingers around their shoulders, sight becoming impossible beyond a few yards. Adrenaline coursed through Maedhros’ veins as the shadows of the mountains began to rise around them, his eyes flicking from right to left, aware of every pebble that was kicked aside and every soft tumble of rocks in the distance. 

The silence seemed to press around them, no words uttered or loud breaths taken. Surely it would not be long until they reached the appointed place of the meeting. Maedhros leaned over to one of the soldiers.

“Let us take out the map in a few minutes,” he said quietly, “I want to see how much farther we have to ride.” 

“Of course, Your Highness,” he answered, matching his tone, the silence retaking their words, no sound but the steady clipping of the horse’s hooves and their quiet breaths. 

_ “Ambush!”  _

Maedhros wheeled his horse around to see one of his soldiers topple off his horse, an arrow through his chest, his companion shouting beside him, sword drawn. 

“Ambush! Ambush!” 

The mist seemed to disappear almost instantaneously, sucked away as if withdrawn by a secret hand. Orkish shouts and screams echoed off the sides of the mountains, and Maedhros realized with a sinking feeling that they had been drawn into a trap. Figures started to pour down the sheer sides of the gorge they were trapped in, no way to turn but forwards—or back. 

“To arms! To arms!” Maedhros shouted, drawing his blades and trying to control his plunging mount. “Retreat, retreat! To arms!” Soldiers began to fall around him, arrows whistling past his ears, the first orcs leaping to the floor and charging forwards. He swung his sword, slicing several back in an arc, then turned his horse to slice again, covering the rear of the column as they started backwards. The echoes of screaming mounts, victorious orkish shouts and cries of the elves rang crazily about him, and he fought to keep his head despite the deafening sounds. 

“For the sake of the Valar, keep moving!” he shouted, hoping some vestige of his voice would be heard. “Move on!” But he realized now that they were stopped, even now a group of only fifty or sixty, the tight quarters not suitable to the mounted soldiers, fenced in by orc spears and swords. 

No, he would not go down like this—

Fierce anger rose up inside him and with a yell he plunged forwards, taking off the heads of several orcs with a vicious swing of his sword. Orc after orc died by his hand, but he was merely one boat in a raging storm. With a thrill of joy he realized he was making headway, but then the ground below him began to shake. 

“No,” he gasped, his eyes wild as he dodged a spear thrust in his direction. 

But it was so—he saw, to his horror, the spiked claws of a Balrog on the ridge, horned heads emerging with a roar as the orcs screamed with victory. 

They had killed his father—but not him too. He must escape, must keep fighting—

“Forwards!” he yelled, backing his mount up to stand back to back with the other soldiers, but with a sickening twist in his stomach, he realized that there were only a handful left. Even now one fell, impaled upon a spear, his mount dragged down with him. Maedhros turned this way and that, fighting off wave after wave, but his eye caught sight of their banners, crumpled and crushed beneath the onslaught. The Balrogs moved down the ridge, their whips of flame whistling through the air, giving far more light to the valley than the elves’ sputtering torches. 

With a scream, suddenly his own mount was falling, stumbling beneath him. Twisting around, he ripped his shield free and quickly jerked his leg out of the stirrup, swinging himself down to land catlike on his feet as his horse fell, three arrows in its flank. 

Immediately he threw himself into battle, ducking behind his shield and slicing out with his sword, back to back with the few others still alive; but as he lunged forwards to catch an orc in the chest, a scream sounded beside him, a spray of moisture hitting his cheek. He fell back to see one elf crumple, blood pouring from his throat. The Balrogs stepped closer, their steps shaking the earth. 

With another yell, he flung himself forwards, bloodstained and with armor rent, only to find the other soldiers dead at his feet. Still he fought on, the ranks of orcs closing about him, Maedhros ducking spears and parrying swords, whirling frantically to avoid anyone from behind. 

He felt something slice across his calf and spun to behead the offending orc, letting out a growl of pain, only to feel a second slice bite across his shoulder. Maedhros shouted again, whirling to lunge towards the leering faces, but his shining blade had no effect as those he cut down were immediately replaced. He pressed himself into his shield, the metal beaten and dented by the force of the relentless blows, his sword flashing in broad arcs, his anger and desperation to escape fueling his movements, but clawed hands suddenly gripped the top of his shield, wrenching it back. He cried out as his arm was twisted by the leather straps. Falling onto one knee, he flung his sword up to protect himself, but it was smashed aside. He tried to rise again to beat back his attackers though they held his shield, trapping his arm. 

Drawing on all his strength, Maedhros ripped his arm free from the leather straps with a yell. He brought his other hand up to swing his sword double-handed, red welts stinging on his arm. No sooner had he lifted his blade, though, then the Balrogs rose before him, three towering figures of shadow and flame. Their heat stung his eyes, the sharp scent of smoke flashing through the air, but Maedhros raised his sword nonetheless.

“Surrender,” the deep voice of the lead Balrog spoke, the earth trembling beneath his feet, the ground slick with blood. 

“Never!” Maedhros shouted, caught up in his fury. 

“Surrender, elf princeling,” the Balrog growled. His glowing eyes narrowed. 

“By the last breath of my father, never!” Maedhros bellowed, staring in defiance up at those around him, a few loose strands of fiery hair falling across his face.

A ghost of a roar sounded from the Balrog, but what seemed like a smile passed across his twisted face. 

“Very well,” he rumbled. His whip slashed downwards at a dizzying speed. Maedhros leapt out of the way, the fire slicing a gash in the earth where he had stood. The others roared, bringing their whips downwards, but Maedhros was quick and he danced out of the way of their blows. Breathing hard, he leapt in closer to the one on his left, hoping to dart in to deal it some injury, but it was more clever than he thought. It roared again, swiping him back with a clawed hand and slashing the whip across the ground. Maedhros barely managed to leap over it, landing unsteadily before crumpling to the ground. He rose up again in a a swift roll, whirling to slice at another whip, but there were too many. A heavy smash to his ankles brought him crashing to the earth, the tip of another whip deftly wrapping around the blade of his sword and jerking it from his hand. 

Maedhros rose upwards, ready to continue the fight, weaponless and yet terrifyingly formidable in his anger, only to find several dozen orkish swords pointed at his chest. The Balrogs loomed above him, bloody and breathing hard, his eyes flashing with fire. 

“Surrender,” the lead Balrog spoke again, cracking his whip threateningly. “Surely you can see that you are beaten.” 

“I will never be beaten!” Maedhros shouted back, breathing hard, “You will have to drag me in first!”

“So be it, Feänorion,” the Balrog growled, smoke furling from his nostrils. “You know what to do,” he growled to the orcs, turning away, “Bring him before the Dark Lord, as swiftly as you can. You know how he hates to be kept waiting about these kinds of things.” A scream of delight went up from the horde surrounding him, and they leapt upon him. Hands tore at his armor, rending it off of him, claws tearing at his skin. He tried to fight back, but they held him fast, lashing his wrists together and swinging a loop of rough rope about his neck. Pulling back, he was jerked forwards, jostled by the shouting group, into a brisk walk, wrists bound and his armor in pieces, held in the hands of the orcs around him. 

Maedhros straightened his back, calling upon his father’s fiery spirit to keep his shoulders straight. His face, clean and proud just this morning, was dirty and twisted into an expression of defiance, his chin tilted up and piercing eyes looking ahead. Blood spattered his cheeks and clothes, his multiple cuts beginning to burn. He kept himself steady, striving to portray the king his people and his brothers had seen. Oh, gods—his brothers. 

He faltered for a moment. Macalaurë had told him to be safe, and he had promised to return. Well, dark though things seemed, thanks to the Valar that they had made other plans. They would know what to do...but he could not shake the vision of Macalaurë’s fearful and sorrowful gaze as he waited for a return that would not come. 

They moved quickly, Maedhros jostled and pushed along, not understanding the harsh orkish words growled his way, but he glared back. The ground rose more and more steeply under his boots, sheer rock bordering the narrow passes. It began to grow even darker, black clouds of mist filtering through the passages. Slowly the sharp scent of smoke started to permeate the darkness, the ring of forges echoing off the distant cliffs. The orcs began to grow more excited. 

Suddenly a rock caught under his boot, and he fell to the ground, awkwardly toppling onto his shoulder. The rope jerked at his neck, biting a red welt deep into him. Angry, he pulled hotly against it, staggering back to his feet as the orc dragged on the rope. He felt the band slip off his braid, his auburn hair beginning to spill across his shoulders. Gritting his teeth, Maedhros started forwards, fighting the pull of the rope every step of the way, but a sharp smack on the back with the butt of a spear sent him stumbling. Orkish laughter rang in his ears. 

He stood up straight again. 

It was not long before the gates of Angband hove into view, tall, black spires of rock glowing with sporadic firelight, a wide plain before them. The orcs quickly pulled him across the flat expanse, the mountains dropping sharply away behind them. They were almost flat-out running, Maedhros struggling to keep pace despite his bound hands. 

The fortress grew steadily larger, looming above him. The sky was clouded black, the echoes of the deep forges echoing across the rock. He felt the color draining from his face, his heart pounding rapidly inside his chest. The fleeting possibility of escape was smashed. They crossed to the gates, huge, twisted bars of thick metal seeming to grow out of the stone, the orcs shouting up to those on the walls as they paused for a moment. 

Maedhros could only assume that they had been given permission to enter, as another few words were shouted before they were waved on. He was jerked and kicked forwards again, crossing through the open black gates, large and menacing. He clutched desperately at the small spark of hope flickering feebly in his breast, trying to cling to what fortitude he could muster. He must be strong. 

His loosened hair, now tangled and twisted, fell into his face, and he shook it back, the motion of his neck causing the rope to further blister his skin. The small groups of the orcs began to split off, growling amongst themselves as he was led by a small pack deeper and deeper into the fortress. Horrible creatures passed before them, werewolves and trolls, innumerable orcs, and even something that looked like a small dragon. They hissed and snapped at him, growls and narrowed eyes and bared teeth following his steps, but the orcs that led him smacked them away, shouting harshly at the offenders, who then slunk back into the shadows. 

They passed through arched doorways, deeper and deeper down into the earth, the darkness growing almost palpable as the multitude of creatures began to thin out. Finally they reached an expansive hallway, its vaulted ceiling held up by intricately carved pillars, but none of it was comforting. There was a creepy coldness to the work, and peering closer at the carvings Maedhros saw countless creatures of evil leering at him out of the stone. He looked defiantly ahead again, the orcs leading him to a tall doorway that could only be one thing. Even now he could sense the terrible evil that dwelt just behind the stone, fear and dread seeping into his bones. Desperately he fought against the tide, bringing to surface his anger and resilience. No, he would not yield here. 

They stopped outside the open doors. 

“Enter,” a deep voice spoke, one that seemed to make the stones tremble and ground shake, one that brought to mind nights with no stars and the dark of immeasurable caverns. 

They dragged him, fighting and stumbling, down the hall, Maedhros pulling back against the rope though it cut into his skin. The orcs gripped his arms tightly, manhandling him down the stone walkway to the foot of the throne. The orc leading them wound the rope about his hands and suddenly pulled hard, jerking him forwards. Taking advantage of his stumble, Maedhros was forced to his knees, his back bent as one of the orcs pressed a knee on top of him, keeping him pressed down. Seizing a fistful of his hair, the orc yanked his head up to face the throne. 

It was a magnificent expanse of carven black rock, the natural texture giving way to smooth carvings, black smoke swirling around the bottom. It seemed to coalesce as it moved farther up into a hulking figure, one many times larger than his own. Wrought armor, black as obsidian, covered it, the shoulders curving upwards, the chest plate smoothly connecting to a heavy crown from which shone three shafts of white light—the light of the Silmarils. 

His father’s goal. 

The heavy-jawed face that sat below them smiled down at him, a twisted picture of pure malice and spite. Black eyes glittered beneath thick brows, power and strength gleaming in their bottomless depths. 

Morgoth. 

“Welcome, Maedhros, son of Fëanor,” he said, his voice resonating around the hall, causing Maedhros’ spirit to quail within him. Realizing that it was the power of Morgoth trying to corrupt him, he pulled his spark of spirit up to the surface. 

“A kindly welcome you give, too,” he spat, earning a sharp jerk from the rope, causing him to gasp in pain. “I wonder if you treat all your guests this well,” he finished through gritted teeth. 

Morgoth laughed, a terrible, harsh sound that seemed to be most often exercised in gloating over the defeated or in reveling over dark plans. “He has his father’s spirit,” he said, a twisted smile passing over his face, “and I assure you, princeling, that none have been treated better.” He sat down upon his throne, lounging comfortably against its back and surveying Maedhros critically. 

“I had debated getting started with the fun as soon as you arrived, but I think it will be better served if you take some respite from the road, for, and I’m going to be honest, you’re going to be here for quite a long time.” He smiled again. “The sons of Fëanor do not lightly fall into my hands. Do not expect your stay here to be...entirely restful.” He motioned to the side, and another figure emerged from the shadows behind the throne, one that Maedhros had not noticed, but whom he knew immediately. This must be Sauron, though he looked different than he had expected. A tall, almost feminine figure stood before him, waves of fiery orange hair falling over his shoulders, which were armored with curved plates like Morgoth’s. A clever face peered out at him, a pair of glowing yellow eyes shining in the dark. Instant dislike bloomed in Maedhros’ stomach. 

“Make sure he is in one of the deep cells, and give him some time to reflect on what is to come. Then, use your judgement. Even if he is not here long, let us give him something to remember us by. And if there is anything good, call me to watch. I need something to enjoy in these times,” Morgoth instructed Sauron, his gaze never leaving Maedhros, who stared evenly back. 

“As you wish, my lord,” Sauron said, smirking in Maedhros’ direction. “T rust me. He will enjoy his stay here immensely.” 

Maedhros felt thrills of foreboding steal through him, though outwardly he tilted his chin high and glared over at the two. 

“Then I leave him in your care,” Morgoth said, nodding. 

Sauron’s smile widened, and he spun to wave a commanding hand to the orcs. “Follow me.” He strode out of the throne room, his black cloak flowing behind him. Maedhros was jerked to his feet once again and forced quickly after, the orc once more dragging on the rope around his neck. 

“Until then, Maedhros, son of Fëanor,” Morgoth rumbled from behind him, his name sounding helpless and small on the tongue of the dark lord. Inwardly he hoped he would never see him again. 

Sauron led them out of the throne room and down the large corridor outside, leading them to a destination he knew not. He did not know where they led him, or where he ended up, or even how long they walked, but eventually they came to their journey’s end. Sauron turned down a long stone hallway lined with cells, their iron bars striking foreboding lines across the arched entrances to the small prisons. Distant screams and crashes of metal echoed off the walls, the orc guards who stood watch quickly stepping aside to allow Sauron to sweep past. 

“Here,” he said, stopping abruptly in front of a cell and spinning on his heel to face them, his cape flaring out dramatically. One of the guards stepped forwards to swing the cell door open, the other orcs quickly pushing Maedhros inside. Sauron stepped in behind them. 

“I think we’ll start slow,” he mused to himself, looking Maedhros up and down with a piercing glance. “Put him in irons.” 

The orcs quickly thrust him to his knees, a knife ripping through the ropes around his wrists. Before he could enjoy the sensation of freed hands, though, cold shackles were snapped about his wrists and ankles. 

“Best do the collar, as well,” Sauron instructed nonchalantly. Immediately the rope was jerked off from around Maedhros’ neck and a large metal band was snapped around it instead, the weight pressing heavily down upon him. Sauron stepped closer as the orcs moved away, reaching forwards to touch him, but rage surged up in a sudden wave and he lunged forwards, only to but caught by the chains that bound him. Sauron smiled as Maedhros glared at him, breathing hotly as he strained against his bindings. 

“We are going to be spending a lot of time together, you and I,” Sauron said, sliding a hand along his jaw and up into his hair. “Hmmmm,” he murmured to himself, fingering the fine strands, then cast another smirk his way before straightening and turning away. “The fun will begin when I get back, Sapitya,” he called over his shoulder as he swept away, the orcs slamming the gate shut with a hollow  _ bang _ . 

Maedhros glared after them for a moment, then let his arms drop, the chains clanking loudly as they hit the floor. The adrenaline began to ebb, and he turned towards the wall, sliding to sit on the floor. Sapitya—little fire. His stomach twisted with disgust and he squeezed his eyes shut and sighed deeply, wincing as the iron band around his neck chafed against his raw skin. Pressing himself into the stone, he sat in the quiet, letting his spinning thoughts slow. It was nice—if anything about his situation was—to just sit, alone, to gather his wits about him. 

There was no hope of rescue. He knew that—that much was obvious. The best he could do was prepare himself, physically and mentally. He had to fight for as long as he could, if there was even the slightest chance of seeing his brothers again. The thought of Fingon slipped through his mind, and he wished that he was here. He was strong, and would be the one to have here. He hoped desperately that his brothers would never come here. 

Sighing again, he sat up slightly, lifting his hands to adjust the metal shackles around them to sit more comfortably, trying not to slide them over the marks left by the rope. 

The chains clanked ominously against the stone floor. 

He did the same with the band around his neck and ankles, then pressed his hands under his chin and sat quietly, trying not to think about what they might do to him. This was what they wanted, anyway—for him to psych himself up so that he would be even more tense and afraid before they began. Taking deep breaths, he tried to block out the sounds echoing from outside, slowing his heart rate and quieting his mind. Gently, he pushed the invading thoughts of sharp objects and whips and chains and blood and screams from his mind, returning to the quiet. He needed something to hold on to...his brothers, of course. Most likely Maglor in particular. And Fingon. He had to hold on for them. To keep calm, and quiet, no matter what they did to him. To stay strong for them. 

They would not break him, he vowed. 

They would not break him. 

It was much later when they came for him, four orcs jerking him to his feet. He was ready, quiet and passive, but there was a strength in him that seemed to light him from within. They lashed his wrists together again before unchaining him, letting the shackles fall to the floor with a crash, then pulled him out the door. It was not far to their destination, only a few more doorways down the long hallway, when they turned into a large stone room with dark stains on the floor. Shackles and chains hung along the walls, instruments and weapons leaned in racks on the floor.

Sauron was waiting. He had changed from the armor into flowing black robes that fell across the floor like smoke, held at the waist by a gold belt. His curving shoulder plates led smoothly upwards, where his bright hair fell over them. He turned towards Maedhros, smiling, an elegant crown of black metal gracing his forehead, his eyes narrowed.

"Welcome again, son of Fëanor," he said, motioning them inside. "Long time no see."

Maedhros was silent as they dragged him in and as they snapped manacles around his wrists, hooking them onto the walls so he stood upright, arms outstretched, held to the walls by thick chains. They were trying to make him feel exposed, vulnerable, Maedhros realized. He gripped his spark of hope tighter. Think of your brothers.

"Strip him," Sauron said, looking pensively along the walls. Maedhros tensed as the orcs stepped forwards, drawing their knives, but stood quietly as they cut his clothes off of him. They sliced through the leather belt and ripped his tunic and shirt off, even jerking off his boots and stockings until he stood in just his pants, barefoot and bare chested in the dim firelight. Sauron stepped forwards to look him over, smiling slyly.

He ran a hand down his chest, enjoying his helplessness. Maedhros glared back, tense and though he did not show it, nervous.

"I think we'll start with that," Sauron said smoothly, tilting his head towards the wall. Maedhros' glanced flicked to the spot and saw an orc, grinning wickedly, pick up a long handled whip. He looked steadily back to Sauron, who smiled wider. Sliding his hand back up, Sauron gently ran a finger along his chin, but this time Maedhros jerked away, the chains rattling with his motion. He stared heatedly at the floor, trying to regain his calm as Sauron turned away slightly.

"Well, since you are refusing to talk to me, I guess I will have to carry most of the conversation myself," Sauron said, scuffing the floor with his heel. "Maybe I'll sweeten the deal." He flicked a finger to the orc with the whip, who brought it down with a sickening crack upon Maedhros' bare back. A flicker of pain crossed his face, but he immediately brought himself back under control, his muscles taut with tension as he prepared himself for the next blow.

"The eldest son of King Fëanor," Sauron mused as the second lash fell upon him, "Maedhros, Fire-Hair. You know, it does seem to be one of your most distinctive features. Not that you have many," he said, his eyes following the lash for its third stroke.

Maedhros was silent, his breathing beginning to grow heavy, his eyes fixed steadily on the floor. Your brothers—think of your brothers.

"Growing up in Valinor was quite the treat, I should guess. I had the same treatment, you know," Sauron mused, turning to pace slowly, looking pensively at the ceiling. "Happy, carefree—but of course, you had your father to deal with. And all those troublesome brothers, well..."

Maedhros clenched his teeth, trying to ignore both Sauron's words and the whip upon his back. It began to burn instead of sting...

"But your father! I mean, he's not exactly the sharpest sword in the rack. To swear an oath to steal from the mightiest of the Valar..." he snorted, the whip cracking behind him. "I mean, how thick can you get? Let's see—killing family at Alqualondë, dragging his sons over with him, not to mention his brothers, burning the boats—" Sauron ticked them off on his fingers— "marching here, not talking to the, ahem, locals, planning to battle us in the first place, and of course, idiotically rushing in to fight off Balrogs by himself—"

"My father was not an idiot," Maedhros said quietly, his voice hoarse from disuse. Sauron started in faked surprise.

"So he does speak! Well, then, Sapitya," he crooned, bending down to look him in the face, "please tell me, how was your father not an idiot?" Maedhros wished he hadn't opened his mouth. He had played into Sauron's hands, letting himself be egged along. He shut his mouth, clenching his teeth and blinking hard to erase some of the pain that began to creep into his head, the lash still slicing down across his back.

"Nothing?" Sauron prompted.

Maedhros kept his eyes fixed on the floor.

Your brothers.

Crack

"Oh come on. There has to be something."

Crack

"I guess not, after all," Sauron sighed, straightening upright. "I was rather looking forwards to hearing an insider's perspective, but I guess I am talking to the son of quite possibly the most ignorant man in Arda, so I shouldn't have expected much in the first place."

Rage started to brew within Maedhros, deep down in his chest. Perhaps sparked by the flame of pain now burning steadily within him as the lash kept biting down, it grew larger. His ragged breathing became more constant, his brow furrowing as Sauron's words echoed in his ears.

"For your father started the oath, yes, but your brothers followed. They must have been even dumber than your esteemed father. Imagine how quickly they'll fall apart now that they've got no one to hide their incompetence behind! I imagine you all can't even have a coherent meal without one going to was over a stolen morsel of bread, if they are even bright enough to tell the difference between a loaf of bread and a stone. Where do you all sleep, in the stables with the animals? A fitting place for the sniveling sons of Fëanor!"

"They're not like that!" Maedhros burst out, grimacing with pain. "They're not like that at all!"

"Really?" Sauron shouted back, "Then prove it, because they were so cowardly that none of them came with you on your little trip!"

"They offered! They wanted to come!" Maedhros yelled back, straining against the chains, his shouting blocking out the searing pain growing across his back, "They would have followed me anywhere, but I made them stay! I kept them safe—from you!"

Sauron clapped his hands. "Yes! There's the little Fire-Hair, showing off his spirit! Come on, give me some more! Tell me how they cried like children after your father died, or how they cannot stand before one soldier without bowing like a willow in a storm!"

"They will stand up to you," Maedhros said, his voice low and threatening, "they will band together and stand up to you no matter what. They are strong, and they know what to do, and so help me, we will hold you and Morgoth down and rip the Silmarils free with our bare hands if we have to!" His voice rose to a shout.

Sauron smiled wickedly. "Yes, but for how much longer can they stand alone? And it looks like I have touched a nerve." Maedhros' spirit quailed slightly within him. He hadn't realized that, but the other parts of him stood strong. He had to defend his brothers. Even if his own honor was shattered in the process. "Without their older brother, they'll crumble like a sand castle by the sea," Sauron continued, then laughed. "Even now you yourself are beginning to fall apart!"

Maedhros tried not to make a sound as the lash fell upon him, but a growl escaped his throat. His shoulders were lined with tension, pulling against the shackles and chains around his wrists. It hurt terribly, now, each strike of the whip laying his skin more raw. He breathed raggedly as he bent his head towards the floor, trying to keep his thoughts under control.

"Go for a little longer," Sauron instructed, stepping back for a moment to survey the scene. Inwardly Maedhros was glad for the silence.

But that meant that every one of his gasps were magnified in his ears, every crack of the whip echoing against his head with a sickening rhythm. Each time the lash met his skin, it drew from him a gasp or growl, and finally, the orc raised his arm and brought it down hard.

Maedhros let out a strangled cry, immediately trying to stifle it as he felt the whip break the skin, a thin line of moisture beginning to trickle down his back. Sauron let it continue, another three lashes drawing more blood, Maedhros beginning to shake with the force of his suppressed pain.

He could not give in, oh gods, he could not give in...

But this was just the beginning, an ominous voice in his head reminded him.

"I think that's enough for now," Sauron said slowly, in no hurry to stop the whipping. The orc turned, rather relieved, to the wall to throw the bloody lash back in its spot.

"My arm was beginning to hurt," he heard the orc growl to another. "Thank goodness for breaks."

Sauron stepped over to the wall to pick up a sizable club, sliding his hand around the handle and smacking it against his hand before turning back to Maedhros.

"I don't normally take part in this sort of thing," he mused, hefting the club in both hands, "but, as I've said, you are a rather special case." Before he had time to prepare himself, Sauron smashed the club into his stomach, knocking the air out of him and causing him to crumple, gasping painfully, to his knees. "It's not every day I get a new toy to play with."

Maedhros fought down the panic that rose with his restricted breathing and screaming chest, the chains pulling his arms straight though he strained desperately to wrap his arms around himself. He forced himself to take deep breaths, his eyes squeezed shut with pain as his newly opened back stretched with each breath. He felt fresh blood run down his skin, but wrenched his mind away to focus on regaining control of his lungs.

Sauron watched him battle with himself, then stepped forwards and hit him again, unsuspected strength lying behind his elegant form. Maedhros let out a strangled gasp and started panting again, his ribs beginning to ache.

"Have you ever wondered how loud you can scream?" Sauron mused, bringing the club down hard on his right shoulder, then in a smooth motion, upon his left. "Because I'm sure it won't be long until we find out." He bent down. "Aw, it hurts, doesn't it?" he crooned, sliding a hand into his hair. Maedhros couldn't react, still gasping with the sudden pain, his eyes wide, thoughts scrambling. Sauron's fingers tightened in his hair and he jerked his head back to look him fully in the face.

"It's going to get a whole lot worse," he whispered, grinning wickedly, his glowing eyes narrowing maliciously. He twisted his thick hair around his fingers and pulled hard, causing Maedhros to cry out, then smacked the club across his face. In a swift move before Maedhros could bend back from the blow, he seized him by the throat and dragged him upright.

"Go ahead," Sauron said darkly to the orcs, turning away as Maedhros tried to recover. Grinning, they stepped in, wielding their own clubs. Dull thuds echoed around the room along with Maedhros' gasps and cries as they beat him. They swung into him with their full strength, throwing him back and forwards against his chains. Maedhros clung to the small thread of hope that he had, barely able to process one thought before the next blow laid them to waste. Oh gods—help him—it all hurt, he had to stay strong....help—his brothers—

One of them smacked him in the calf and he went down hard, his knee smashing into the rough rock, the taste of blood in his mouth. He hardly heard Sauron's order to stop through the pounding in his head. Blood roared in his ears, and as he bent forwards, gasping, a spot of red dripped from his mouth onto the stone.

"That will be all for today," Sauron said, staring down at the bent form before him. "I believe that was a sufficient welcome. Take him back to his cell." He grinned as the orcs once more pulled him to his feet and unhooked his shackles. "See you tomorrow, Sapitya," he called at his retreating and bloody back as he was hustled back to his small cell.

When they snapped him back into his restraints, it was all he could do to turn forwards before falling onto the floor. His head pounded, his back stinging, his temples already tender. Maedhros pressed his head into the stone, its coolness soothing to his rushing thoughts. Oh, gods...

He lay quietly, slowly relaxing as his breathing slowed. That wasn't so bad, he told himself, it was just a whip and some clubs. He could stand up to that. He hadn't said anything entirely stupid, or played completely into Sauron's hands. He could do this. He could. Trying to comfort himself, he relaxed further, pressing himself against the floor, his eyes slowly fluttering shut.

He fell asleep, alone, on the stone floor of Angband.


	2. Chapter 2

It was cold. So cold.

Maedhros awoke, shivering fitfully on the stone, cold creeping down his spine. He lay still, trying to fall back into sleep, but it would not come to him. His thoughts moved sluggishly, his head thrumming with pain from the night before. The rough stone pressed against his stomach and cheek, the discomfort growing more by the minute. Finally, Maedhros tried to sit up, but fell back to the ground with a groan.

Everything hurt.

He shut his eyes, slowing his breathing back down, his ribs stretching painfully. The shackles had worn red welts around his wrists, the slightest moment causing his beaten muscles to scream with pain. Steeling himself again, Maedhros carefully drew himself to his knees, gritting his teeth against the cry that rose in his throat. The chains clanked against the floor as he slid himself over to the corners of the room, curling against the wall, his knees to his chest. The room swam before his eyes.

He shivered violently, gently running a hand over himself to feel the damage done. Bruises had blossomed all across his skin, mottling it purple and in some places, green. It was tender to his touch, and he winced as he accidentally pressed too hand. He passed a hand over his face, gently feeling the black eye forming and the long welt left by Sauron's blow across his cheek. Quickly pulling his hand back, he pressed it to his stomach, curling closer to preserve heat. His hair spread across his back, a slight blanket in the freezing cold, the auburn strands falling across his shoulders, its color and presence strangely comforting. Even here it was constant. Gradually, he stopped shivering, lapsing into a fitful doze and trying to ignore his back burning with every breath.

Maedhros collected his thoughts.

He had to be prepared. They had caught him off guard with the beatings last night, and Sauron would surely exploit the weakness he showed around his brothers. Quiet, calm and preparedness is what he would have to exhibit.

He let his mind wander, away from the dark dungeons, the warm breeze of Valinor returning to him, the sun upon his face. The laughs of his brothers echoed in his ears, the long grass waving around his knees as he walked with Fingon, the bright colors of their tunics flashing through the green. His cousin's presence was comforting, and they laughed as they spotted Amros tackle Amrod.

"Don't hurt yourselves, now!" Maedhros called.

"We're not carrying you home," Fingon laughed, his dark hair blowing in the breeze as he grinned in response.

The slam of the iron bars jolted Maedhros out of his dreams, making the chains rattle as he jumped. He glared darkly at the orcs who entered.

"Ah, you'll want to save that look for later," one of them growled wickedly as they yanked the shackles off, leaving behind red welts. "You'll need that spirit."

Maedhros groaned involuntarily as he was pulled to his feet, his sore muscles stretching with misuse. Every movement hurt—his bruises made every step painful, the orcs' hard grips on his arms squeezing them. He winced as they shoved him forwards, panting with effort of keeping silent. They manhandled him into the hall, then down to the stone room again. This time, his wrists were snapped into shackles over his head, his back, barely scabbed over, pressed against the rough wall. Sauron was not there.

The torches on the wall flickered ominously, the same array of instruments along the walls. The orcs' shadows fled over the stone as they growled amongst themselves, eyeing him and fingering their weapons.

"Ah, good, I see he's ready," Sauron said, striding into the room. Maedhros started and quickly looked in his direction. "Sleep well, Sapiyta?"

"As well as one can on a freezing stone floor," Maedhros growled in response.

"Oh! You noticed!" Sauron smiled. "Lord Morgoth brought the temperature down especially for you."

"Well, he might want to consider bringing snow, too," Maedhros said.

"He might. It would one kind of blanket for you."

"As if I need one."

"Sapitya, you just aren't going to give in, are you?" Sauron smiled.

"Never."

"Well, take my advice, and go ahead and give up now. It will make this easier for you."

"Never," Maedhros repeated, lifting his chin.

"I am warning you, Sapitya. Give up now. Tell me you surrender and I may consider being more lenient," Sauron said, stepping closer, his voice taking on a dangerous edge.

"I will never give in to you," Maedhros returned, glaring him in the eye.

"Be careful, now," Sauron whispered, nose to nose with him, "Surrender. All it takes it one word."

"No," Maedhros said firmly, and spat in his face.

Sauron bent backwards, then rose threateningly, wiping the wetness from his cheek.

"Fine, then," Sauron said, his voice rising, eyes flashing dangerously, "If you want to play that game, so help me before long I will have you on your knees pleading for mercy, and it does not take long for those pleas to become screams for death!"

Maedhros was silent, glaring back at him. Sauron spun around, snapping his fingers to one of the orcs.

"Start with knives," he ordered. The swishing of blades being drawn graced the silence, and the orc advanced towards him, raising a thick knife. Maedhros shifted his feet to stand more securely, readying to endure whatever came. The image of the light of Valinor upon Fingon's laughing eyes came unbidden to him, and his heart became strong again.

"Wait," Sauron called suddenly as the orc lifted his knife, "Use the other side." The orc smiled wickedly, flipping the blade around to run the dull side across Maedhros' chest. He growled in pain and squeezed his eyes shut. It stung, but it did not hurt terribly. Fingon's smile flashed before his eyes as he opened them, slowing his breathing though the orc dragged the knife across his chest again.

Sauron sat back, watching the orc repeat the motion a few more times. Maedhros' chest ached, now, each breath stretching the skin uncomfortably.

"Don't forget to move down," Sauron said, arms crossed. The orc obediently crouched down to press the knife along his thigh, but impulse overcame Maedhros and he kicked out, smashing the orc's head against the wall.

"Ah, come on, now," Sauron sighed. He motioned to the other orcs. "Chain him down."

They moved forwards obediently, but Maedhros kicked them back, beginning to breathe heavily. He could see them growing angrier, but any time they grew close he lashed out again. They could not get to him. With satisfaction, Maedhros noticed Sauron growing more frustrated.

"Oh, get out of the way, fools," Sauron finally snapped, rising and snatching a knife from one of the orcs. Dodging his kicks, Sauron moved to him quickly, pressing the knife, sharpened side down, to his collarbone—hard. Maedhros cried out and tried to lash out again, but Sauron had already pinned him to the wall.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" he hissed into his ear as blood began to flow down his chest, the orcs snapping shackles around his ankles. Sauron raked the knife downwards, drawing more blood, Maedhros panting with repressed pain. He did not notice he was crying out until Sauron sliced across his chest and arms, reaching down to cut across his thighs.

"Mm, you are a pretty sight on your own, but you'll be much prettier when I'm through with you," Sauron sighed, stepping to press against him, pushing his face to the wall and raking the knife across his cheekbone. Maedhros writhed against his grip, his brother Caranthir coming to mind, who never went down without a fight—

He ripped out of Sauron's grasp, snapping at his fingers as he darted back. Maedhros stood, breathing hard and dripping blood, Sauron staring back at him with equal hatred.

"Fine. You want to fight?" Sauron barked. He strode to the door and yelled into the hallway. "You! Get in here!" Whipping back around, he made sure Maedhros' wrists and ankles were securely chained before unhooking him from the wall and seizing his hair, dragging him into the next room. Flinging him onto the floor, a horde of orcs filed in quickly after him, Maedhros pulling himself onto his knees.

"Get whatever weapons you want, whips, knives, swords, I don't care. He wants to fight, so teach him a lesson," Sauron ordered. "Let's see the famed fighting skills of Maedhros, Fire-Hair!"

Maedhros surveyed the room, his battle senses kicking in, adrenaline beginning to flow through him. It was large and square, empty, with Sauron standing by the only exit, the other blocked by a locked iron gate. That was out. The orcs began to move in, some cracking whips or waving blades, all grinning eagerly at the opportunity to fight. Quickly ducking a knife swiped his way, Maedhros rolled to smash into an orc, bringing him down and crashing the metal shackles against his head. A whip cracked across his back, and he turned, catching the leather, but the orc hung on and jerked it back out of his grasp, leaving a red welt across his palm. Anger bloomed in his stomach, and he lunged forwards, visions of him defeating the mob flashing before his eyes. He would take down Sauron, then flee down the corridors, hiding in the shadows before slipping out some unlocked door somewhere—

But already they were upon him, and it was all he could do to lash out, fighting as best he could with shackled hands and chained legs. He panted with anger, all the pent up rage and frustration and desperation finally rising to the surface, and he threw himself into battle with a yell. He swung, oblivious to the cuts and welts he was receiving, using his shackles as a weapon, choking one with the chains while kicking down another. A sharp jerk on his hair caused him to lurch backwards, blood thrumming in his ears as he whirled to elbow the orc into the wall, but there was already a sword slicing towards his chest. Ducking quickly, he rolled forwards, but a knife caught him across the back and he stood, knocking out the offending orc with a well-aimed punch. With a sudden rush of satisfaction, he saw the unconscious bodies around him on the floor, but the moment was short lived as another orc threw himself on top of him. They came in waves, now, screaming and angry, reckless and ruthless in their rage. Against his will, Maedhros began to tire, the days without food and water taking a toll on him. Soon the well of anger that had seemed bottomless was dry, and he fought back out of desperation, his face becoming pained, sobs starting to form in his throat. Oh, gods. he had to keep fighting, for his brothers—

He struck out again, fruitlessly, the blows coming quickly, now. Whips cracked down on his back and shoulders, knives slashing at his chest and legs. Hands tore at his hair, claws raking across his face. No, no, he would not be beaten—

Maedhros tried to rise up again, calling upon the image of Maglor's hands upon his harp and of Fingon's quiet voice in his ear, but crumpled instead, falling to the floor as the orcs yelled in delight. They set more ferociously upon him, raining down blows, the floor below a beginning to be slick with his own blood. He covered his head with his hands, curling in on himself, his desperation turning suddenly to fear. They wrapped their fingers through his hair, jerking his head back so he cried out, tearing at the auburn strands and pulling him to his back, whips slashed across his chest, widening the gashes already there. He screamed in pain and helplessness as a knife cut across his face, slicing from his forehead to chin. He tasted blood, oh gods, he tasted blood—but he had no strength to fight back, and they held him down, beating and whipping and cutting at him—the word "mercy" stuck in his throat, but he choked it back down. No—never that word—

"Stop," Sauron said cooly, the orcs breaking off their actions, Maedhros shaking and half sobbing on the floor. "Take him back."

The orcs seized him by the hair, dragging him over the stone, and back down the hall, his scalp burning with the force. Turning the corner sharply, they threw him to the floor, snapping the collar around his neck and his wrists and ankles to the floor before leaving him, alone.

The door slammed shut behind them with a sickening creak.

Maedhros bent around himself on the stone, pain thrumming through him, his thoughts clouded and panicked. His blood seeped through his fingers as, running down in rivulets, the sharp taste of iron flooding his mouth as he sobbed. A thin line of blood leaked down his chin to the floor, and he shook with fear and pain, trying to get himself under control. He gave up attempting to console himself and boost his courage, losing himself in memories.

"Fingon, Maglor," he whispered to himself, their names sounding small in the darkness. "Fingon, Maglor." They comforted him, the familiar names steadying his breathing and calming his thoughts. Images softly came to him, Maglor leaning against the balcony at night, singing softly under his breath, Amrod and Amros tumbling into his side, teaching Caranthir in the forges, climbing a tree with Fingon. Gods, it all seemed so good now. So, so much better than here. He curled in on himself, losing himself in his welts and cuts, his head stinging from where they had torn at his hair. Slowly, his pounding head slowed, and he fell into a restless sleep, his blood beginning to slow, his face relaxing in slumber.

Maedhros awoke with a start of pain, the world flooding back to him after a moment of darkness. It was warm, now, and there was pain in his chest. But he was on his back, laying across someone's knees—and for one, wonderful moment he thought he was home, his head in Fingon's lap, his gentle fingers playing with his hair. But another pain in his chest caused him to cry out, his eyes flying open to find the dark of the dungeon.

"Oh, quiet, it is nothing major," a familiar voice sighed. Terror suddenly thrummed through him, and he wrenched himself sideways, gasping as he threw himself away from the sound. His movement resulted in another flame of pain, though, and he cried out again as a pair of arms held his shoulders, steadying him.

"Sa-Sauron," Maedhros panted, his eyes wide with fear as he stared up into his face.

"Yes, it's me," Sauron replied, half smiling. "I was wondering when you would wake."

"Wha—what are you doing?" Maedhros asked, noticing what was on the floor beside them.

"Bandaging your wounds," Sauron replied coolly, reaching for a cloth wet with something dark, "You didn't expect to be left here to bleed out, did you?" Maedhros was quiet, trying to comprehend what was going on, his thoughts slowed with lack of food and sleep.

"But...why? You didn't seem to care before." He winced heavily as Sauron pressed the cloth to his chest.

"When you receive a new toy and break it, you cannot throw it away. It is better to repair it and play with it until it breaks again," Sauron said, moving to dab at the other wounds. "And I am the only one skilled enough to administer healing. The orcs break everything that they touch."

"Isn't that what you wanted?" Maedhros shot back.

"Oh yes, but like I said, it is better to fix it. And I just received you yesterday—I cannot bear to throw you out after so little."

"So that's it?" Maedhros said, gritting his teeth as the cloth was pressed to his face, "Convenience?"

Sauron snorted. "No, I assure you, this is quite inconvenient for me." He was silent, wiping away the streaks of blood and grime that had dried upon him. Maedhros was left awkwardly staring upwards, his eyes darting around the room. He tried not to look at Sauron.

"Sit up, now," Sauron said suddenly, and Maedhros raised himself slowly off of his knees, wincing greatly. He sat up, back to Sauron as his companion shifted to dab at his ruined back. Surely there was some other reason for these actions, Maedhros told himself. He could not bring himself to believe that this was brought around merely for himself to bring amusement to the Dark Lord. He would not be sending his top lieutenant to bandage a lowly prisoner for that. An underling, maybe. Not one so high ranking as Sauron. A thought crossed his mind.

"Does...anyone know you are here?" he asked, glancing back at Sauron, who hesitated.

"No," he answered finally, returning to gently wiping away at his wounds. Maedhros was quiet. There could be another reason, a small voice whispered at the back of his mind.

"Turn," Sauron said, and Maedhros slid to face him, Sauron squeezing out the bloody rag into a bowl of water at his side. Shaking off his hands, he reached for a roll off white fabric, unwinding it slightly and looking towards Maedhros. "Lift your arms."

Maedhros obeyed, watching him carefully, the chains around his wrists clinking softly. Leaning close, Sauron began to wrap the cloth tightly around his chest, his fingers surprisingly gentle. Maedhros found himself studying his face, carefully arranged to be neutral. He wasn't wearing his black crown, the intricate black embroidery on his raven garments rich and elegant. His hair fell in soft waves across his shoulders, slipping slightly as he leaned forwards, the shifting reds and oranges of a late sunset. He leaned closer to reach behind him, Maedhros steeling himself to stay still, his breath warm on his chest. Why was he leaning so close....

Then he was leaning back, passing the bandages from hand to hand as he wound the fabric securely around his chest. It was tight, and Maedhros winced more than once, his arms growing tired though only a short time had passed since he raised them. Sauron noticed his labored breaths and shaking arms.

"You can let them down," he said, carefully pulling the last of the binding tight as he dropped his arms, the chain clanking to the floor. Maedhros tried to slow his heavy breathing while Sauron tucked the end of the cloth firmly inside the wrappings, then turned to pick up a small bowl of ointment.

"For your face," he said shortly, dabbing his fingers in the paste. "Come closer." Fighting himself for a moment, Maedhros leaned closer, proffering his split cheek. With a finger, Sauron smeared the ointment across his cut, Maedhros sucking in a breath at the pain, but keeping himself still. He watched him from the corner of his eye, Sauron's fine-boned face tilted with concentration, his eyes fixed upon his face.

"There," he said finally, pulling his hand away. Maedhros was sure he felt his touch linger. Sauron stood, the black of his robes swishing around his feet as he picked up the water, cloth and bowl.

He motioned to a small plate on the ground. "That is for you," he said, stepping around the little offering of bread and water. "Do not expect the quiet to last long." Maedhros held himself back from lunging for the food, restraining his roaring stomach. He looked after Sauron's retreating back, still skeptical of the aid.

"If this is not convenience or favoritism, what is it?" Maedhros called, causing Sauron to stop, the gate partway open. He began to turn, his hair falling across his back as he started to look towards him, but then stopped abruptly and strode from the hall, slamming the gate behind him. The silence seemed to weigh down the small stone room.

Finally releasing control over himself, Maedhros threw himself towards the food, wolfing down the small bit of bread on the metal plate. He began to slug down the water, but it was only when it was half gone that he caught himself. Pulling the cup away from his parched lips, he paused, breathing hard. Wrenching himself back under control, he set the cup back down, vowing to save it for later. He crawled back to sit against the wall, dragging the chains behind him. Reaching out to pull the cup and plate closer, he leaned back against the stone, closing his eyes and reveling in the feeling of a somewhat pacified stomach and clean wounds.

He was still puzzled why Sauron would help him. There was no reason for him to waltz in and bandage up a prisoner. Even if he was valuable and fresh like they said he was, he would have healed on his own time. None of the wounds were life-threatening. He touched his face. And unless he was going insane—which he might be, he reminded himself, in this place—Sauron had leaned in closer and touched him for longer than was necessary. He hated to think about the real reason that might lie underneath his action. Hated, hated it.

Maedhros pressed his forehead to the wall in frustration. Maybe now, when his mind has quieted, with food and drink and aid, he could get some rest. He was still exhausted from the past day, or days...his sense of time was gone. His eyelids fluttered closed, his body trying desperately to relax despite his bonds and the stone surrounding him. With the distant sounds of the fortress' forges echoing in his head, he let himself slip gently back into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Maedhros lived in days of dim darkness, left undisturbed for a long amount of time in order for his wounds to heal, he assumed. There was nothing to do inside the small stone cell, receiving barely enough food and water to keep him alive. He fell into a kind of routine, waking up to eat something and to daydream, then falling back asleep. Deep, true sleep was rare, though, and most times he was left to doze fitfully, his chains weighing him down uncomfortably. They began to leave marks behind them, raw red bands that chafed when Maedhros stirred. Another reason not to move.

He thought about his father, the tall and proud, the eloquent speaker, who instilled in his sons a love of pride and honor, who, for his own honor and greed, had brought them here. He thought of his brothers, quiet, musically gifted Maglor, fiery Caranthir, inventive and calculating Caranthir, caring and gentle Celegorm, and the bright and eager twins, Amrod and Amras. They all had blood on their hands, now, not just of the countless orcs they had slain, but of their own kin. Maedhros hated those memories, hated himself for taking part in that battle of his father. He still remembered the blood that had dripped off his sword, the horror that rose within him, a horror that had never really disappeared. The shouts of his kin dying beneath his blade melted to become the last screams of his dying father, then the laughter of the orcs as they beat him. Sauron's cruel gaze peered down at him, the light of his eyes melting away to the light of Valinor, a thick tree towering above him. A figure was silhouetted against the blue sky, looking down at him from high up.

"Come on, Nelyo, it's not that high. Come join me," Fingon called, his smiling face framed by the fluttering leaves.

"You know I am not a very good tree climber," Maedhros answered loudly, the shadows patterning the ground around him.

"Please? You can do it! Climbing trees should be nothing next to sword combat."

Maedhros hesitated. "Fine," he sighed reluctantly, relenting and walking to the lowest branch, "I'll come up." He reached for the branch and swung himself up with a grunt, using the trunk to steady himself as he stood to reach the next one. Slowly working his way up the tree, he was happy to see Fingon's lithe form waiting for him.

"Don't take all day about it, now," Fingon laughed, "Telperion will be shining by the time you meet me!"

"I thought you wanted me to come up!" Maedhros panted, swinging a leg over a branch to pull himself even with Fingon's knees.

"And so I did," he said, a smile crossing his face. Maedhros was momentarily startled, the expression catching him off guard, nearly slipping out of the tree. Fingon laughed again.

"Stop, or you'll make me have to climb the whole thing again," Maedhros gasped, finally pulling himself to sit even with him and leaning heavily against the tree trunk.

"You made it," Fingon smiled.

"I did," Maedhros sighed, then turned to look out through the branches at the the view, turning so the slight blush in his cheeks would not be spotted. The view was truly spectacular—rolling hills of green grass spreading beneath them, the white city of Tirion gleaming in the distance. They were lucky they got some time away from everyone—solitude was rare with the amount of siblings they both had.

"The view is beautiful," Maedhros commented with a sigh, leaning back against the trunk and closing his eyes. He decided to test the water. "Do you know what else is beautiful?"

Fingon snorted. "What?"

Maedhros suddenly cleared his throat, changing his mind. "Uh, this tree."

Fingon laughed again. "Really?" he said pensively.

"Mm hm," Maedhros confirmed, a slight blush creeping into his cheeks.

Awkward silence came upon them, the breeze ruffling the leaves and making the branches sway. Their hair wafted in the wind, backs leaned up against the trunk of the tree.

"That's not what you were going to say," Fingon said suddenly. "I know it."

"Yes it was."

"No it wasn't."

"Yes it was!"

"No it wasn't!"

"Well, fine, no it wasn't," Maedhros relented, "but I was only going to tell you that you look...very nice today."

"Do you really think so?" Fingon said, expecting a sarcastic answer.

"Yes," Maedhros replied honestly, tilting his head to look at him. Fingon smiled, the warmth lighting up his face, the dappled light falling across the pair. They gazed at each other, and Fingon's gaze flicked downwards for a moment, Maedhros' breath catching.

"Nelyo!" a loud voice called from the ground. "Nelyo, are you there?"

Maedhros sighed. "I am here," he shouted back, the form of his brother Celegorm small on the ground.

"Father sent me from the forges to get you," Celegorm called up, squinting up at the pair, "He says it's time to come home!"

Maedhros sighed. "I'll be down," he shouted, slipping down off the branch. "I will see you later," he said, looking to Fingon.

"Hopefully soon." Fingon smiled.

They paused again, staring at each other, before Maedhros slipped down the tree, clambering from branch to branch before lightly jumping to the ground beside his waiting brother.

He did not know that Fingon watched him until he disappeared from sight.

The dungeon grew colder.

And somewhere, an unfamiliar elf walked into camp.

The sounds of the horses echoed softly through the mountains, mist playing in mischevious tendrils across the road. All six of them had ridden out, though they knew the danger was great. They dressed for stealth, wearing light armor and dark clothing, carrying very little. Caranthir rode at the head, bold as ever, watching the land about them like a hawk. Amrod and Amras followed, their horses prancing with their riders' tension. Maglor rode in the middle, dark circles under his eyes from his long time without sleep. Curufin and Celegorm brought up the rear, talking quietly amongst themselves.

Nothing stirred in the mist, the six figures the only movement in the crags and cracks of the mountains.

"We should be coming to the meeting place, soon," Curufin called from the back.

"Has anyone seen anything?" Maglor asked.

A chorus of negatives answered him.

"You can see the tracks of the horses that came through," Caranthir said over his shoulder. "They definitely rode this way."

"Did they even get to the meeting place?" Celegorm wondered behind them.

"I don't know," Maglor replied worriedly. That uncertainty was killing him.

Suddenly, Caranthir uttered a shout and suddenly spurred his horse forwards, darting through a narrow passageway in the rock. The twins quickly followed.

"Caranthir, wait!" Curufin called, trying to rein his horse in in order to slip through behind Celegorm and Maglor. When they joined them on the other side, Caranthir had swung himself off his horse, staring at the ground, which was broken and stirred beneath them. Dead littered the ground.

The blood drained from Maglor's face as he noticed the twisted forms of elven soldiers, lying rent and torn in the dirt. Dead orcs lay around and atop them, spears and swords protruding haphazardly here and there. He swung off his horse as well, the others joining him and Caranthir on the ground.

"They never made it to the meeting place," Caranthir said, his voice thick with anger. "They were ambushed."

"We should have known," Celegorm said in a hushed voice.

"Didn't we?" Amras said, "We've always known Morgoth has been a snake!"

"We thought we were ready," Caranthir said, shaking his head, "we sent more soldiers than requested."

"It was obviously not enough," Amrod snorted, snapping an arrow over his knee. "I'm going to look for survivors."

"Amrod," Maglor said finally. "There are no survivors. Maedhros is dead." His voice broke and he turned away, scared to see the red of his brother's hair among those on the ground, his eyes glassy, face unmoving.

"Here!" Caranthir shouted suddenly, kneeling down and lifting something from the churned earth. The brothers hurried over, hearts pounding and worries flooding their minds.

"Maedhros' dagger," he said, proffering a snapped blade, the wrought hilt still intact. "He must be here somewhere." Immediately they started searching the ground, looking for the silver armor and red hair, but they saw nothing.

"Here's his shield," Amros called, lifting a bent and almost broken piece of metal from the ground.

"And here's his sword," Curufin added, pulling the chipped but intact blade out of the ground where it lay.

"But where is he?" Celegorm said, sounding slightly panicked. "They have to have at least left us with a body to bury!"

Maglor's words from the morning of his brother's departure rang in his ears. What if you are killed, and we cannot even recover your body?

"Unless," Curufin mused, "unless they did not kill him. They could have taken him hostage."

"That would make sense for Morgoth," Caranthir agreed, standing, "he would be too valuable to merely dispense with."

"So...he has been captured?" Celegorm clarified.

Curufin nodded. "My guess is that he is currently in a cell in Angband." They were silent for a moment—that could be a fate worse than death. Who knew what tortures he could face at the hands of the Dark Lord.

"You know," Amrod said suddenly, coming up behind Maglor from inspecting the orc corpses, "we could mount a rescue mission now! All six of us are here, with provisions and weapons enough to ride there and back."

"True," Amras agreed. "Now would be the best time to go, since we have the element of surprise."

Caranthir drew his sword. "Let us go! We would have our brother back by our sides before tomorrow's sun set."

"Wait," Curufin cautioned, "we have no plan, no backup, no one knows where we are going, and we don't have an extra horse. Even if we could slip inside past the hundreds of orcs, goblins, werewolves and who knows what else, find our way in, find him, and then find our way back out, how would we get him home?"

"Oh, he could easily fit on one of our horses, or we could ride double," Amras said, motioning to his twin.

Curufin turned incredulously to Maglor. "Are we even considering this? There is absolutely no way we can succeed! I mean, I want Maedhros back as much as you do, but this is ridiculous."

"Well," Maglor said wistfully, weighing the options. He stared down the road leading father into the dark mountains, one surely his brother had trod. Trod the path taking him to the feet of the Dark Lord, and most likely a cell in the depths of Angband. What Maglor would have given to have him back again. Surely they had the strength and prowess to lead a rescue.

Maglor turned to the road. It was a long and dangerous one, but one worth it for his brother....

Hurried footsteps sounded down the hallway outside, light and quick. Those were no orc-steps. Maedhros raised his head, looking tiredly to the gate, the footsteps growing louder.

Suddenly Sauron appeared in the opening, quickly unlocking the grate and darting inside before shutting it behind him. He turned to Maedhros, disheveled and breathing hard.

"I've come to warn you," he spoke fearfully, crossing to him, "Morgoth has ordered you to be tortured again, in his presence. I tried to dissuade him, but he wouldn't listen. My power has already been stretched too far in keeping them away from you this long. We had better get rid of these—no one can know I was here." He began to quickly rip the bandages from his chest, Maedhros sitting up to let him reach more easily.

"You kept them away from me?" Maedhros asked.

Sauron nodded, bunching up the fabric. "I tried, but it was not to last. I must do his bidding—whatever happens in there, know that I am sorry, and I will do what I can to protect you, but it may not be enough. Whatever happens, I want you to know that I'm sorry." He ran to the door, clutching the fabric to his chest.

Maedhros sat up more, calling after him. "Please, just answer this—why?"

Sauron swung the door out, closing it in place, his black robes swirling across the floor as he turned to stare at Maedhros, pain in his eyes.

"Because I love you," he breathed.

Then he was gone.

Maedhros closed his eyes. Because he loved him. He had known something like that was coming. Though the first visit had been some time ago, he still remembered the way Sauron's touch had lingered. How he had gazed at him. How he hadn't answered the question why, or at least, not convincingly.

But he had answered now, oh, had he answered. Visions of Sauron sitting alone in some darkened room, staring painedly at the wall, thinking of himself, rose before him. How far had his thoughts wandered? Images of them kissing passionately, bare-chested, flashed through his mind, but he shook his head in disgust.

There was no way he would ever love him back.

How Sauron could possibly fathom the two of them together, Maedhros knew not. He had been tortured at Sauron's hands, and a few bandages would not fix the hurt already done to him. If anything, although it was admittedly sweet that he had tried to protect him (if what he said was true), his confessions almost made things worse. If he had loved him, why had he let him suffer like this? Why not slip him out some dark passageway? Surely Sauron could pass the blame to someone below him if he managed to escape. He was smart enough to do that.

Maedhros caught himself feeling sorry for Sauron. He deserved every bit of pain that came his way, he told himself firmly, for following Morgoth and betraying the Valar and murdering countless elves.

And yet wasn't what that he himself did? Left the Valar to battle Morgoth, slaying his own kin in the process?

The loud clump of orkish boots on stone echoed down the hallway, a large number from the sound. Maedhros didn't move. If they wanted him, they would have to do the work.

There were more of them this time, almost a dozen, growling amongst themselves, leering at him as a few swung open the gate with a deafening screech. They rushed towards him, excited, ripping the shackles off and dragging him to his feet. He stumbled out of the cell, his hair falling in lank waves over his shoulders as they manhandled him roughly down the hall. Maedhrostried to clear his head and steady his thoughts, something difficult as fatigue and lack of food had made his them sluggish. His brothers and Fingon never left his head.

He was taken past the customary room, down, down, down the hall. His stomach twisted with foreboding the farther they walked. Whatever they had in store for him had to be terrible if it was not close to his cell, much worse than the knives and beatings. The orcs chattered around him, urging him on faster.

Finally they reached their destination, the orcs pulling him to a halt outside a large stone door, adorned with geometric carvings. One banged on the door, and it opened with a groan. Other orcs bustled about inside, the interior a large rectangle, the ceiling high and unadorned. Maedhros did not have to see him to know that Morgoth was already there, the aura of fear and power penetrating him long before he noticed the dark figure. Lounging atop a simple throne, he smiled wickedly as Maedhros entered, Sauron standing faithfully at his shoulder.

"Welcome again, son of Feänor," he said. "Release him," he ordered the orcs sharply. They let go, Maedhros swaying slightly as he straightened himself to his full height, glaring steadily at the Dark Lord.

"Come here," Morgoth said easily, but Maedhros didn't move.

"Come here," Morgoth ordered, his voice hardening. Maedhros wondered if disobeying was such a good idea, but he cursed himself for giving into his fear and held his ground.

"Come here!"Morgoth ordered again, his voice resonating with dangerous power, the room seeming to grow darker. Sauron looked slightly nervous behind him.

"Think carefully about your actions, now," the Dark Lord growled, staring fixedly at Maedhros, his gaze seeming to penetrate his very soul. "Come here."

Maedhros swayed in one spot for a moment longer, then slowly, and with as much pride and dignity as he could muster, took a step forwards.

"That's it," Morgoth crooned as Maedhros walked closer. He let him continue up to the foot of his throne.

"Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he said softly, gently sliding a hand under his chin. Maedhros thrummed with hate, every part of his body rigid and stiff as Morgoth tilted his head to examine his cheek.

"He's healing rather well, don't you think?" Morgoth said to Sauron, his eyes never leaving Maedhros' face.

"Y-yes," Sauron answered, clearly trying to push the nervousness from his voice. Morgoth smiled wider as Maedhros' eyes flicked upwards to the Silmarils.

"You want them...well, go on. Reach out," Morgoth whispered, "take them."

Maedhros didn't move, returning his gaze to meet Morgoth's.

"Pity," the Dark Lord sighed, leaning back in his throne. "Well, little Fire-Hair, I need some entertainment today, and so you're going to provide it. Sauron tells me you have been rather strong up to this point, so let us see if we cannot do some damage to that unbreakable spirit." Morgoth waved a hand to the orcs, and they jerked him aside eagerly, Maedhros wincing greatly as they gripped his raw wrists and still-healing cuts.

The orcs dragged him over to something he had not noticed when they walked in, a large basin larger length wise than he was tall. Filled with dark water, curls of vapor wafted from the surface, whether from cold or heat, Maedhros could not tell. Snapping shackles around his wrists and then lashing them together even more tightly with more chains, the orcs pushed him to the side of the basin, his stomach pressed to the cold metal. They gripped his arms, holding him steady over the water and looking to Morgoth for instructions.

"Release him," Morgoth said, the orcs relinquishing their hold upon him. "Now, little Feänorion, lean down. Lean down so your breath stirs the water."

Hate boiled inside Maedhros. He knew that they were trying to degrade him, to humiliate him by having him submit to Morgoth's commands. His heated gaze flicked to Sauron, who to his surprise, looked fearful. He gave Maedhros the smallest of nods, his eyes pained as he silently communicated that he should obey Morgoth.

"Lean down," Morgoth repeated, enjoying watching his internal struggle.

Caught between resisting and following Sauron's advice, Maedhros steeled himself and held himself straight. You will not relent, he told himself. You will not relent.

"No," he spoke, the one word voicing his anger and bringing resolve to his countenance. He stared back, chin lifted, as Morgoth laughed.

"Come, now, don't you know to bow to your superiors?"

Maedhros bit back a sharp retort. "Yes, I do. My father taught me well," he said, his back ramrod straight.

"You were not wrong when you said he had spirit," Morgoth commented to Sauron, who smiled weakly. "Go ahead," he said to the orcs.

Seizing his arms again, before Maedhros could react, the orcs plunged his head into the water. The icy, freezing coldness smashed into him like a punch to the gut, sucking the air from his lungs. Energy shot through him as the full shock of the cold water hit him, barely managing to avoid breathing in a mouthful of water.

They pulled him out, dripping and blinking rapidly, to barely above the water. Maedhros' head spun with adrenaline, his breaths coming in choking gasps.

"Your soul is surely as fiery as your hair, little Feänorion," Morgoth said, "But this should cool you off rather quickly, I should say." He lifted a finger, and Maedhros barely had time to draw breath before he was plunged under again.

Chill bumps raced up and down his flesh, his chest filling with pain as he fought the rising impulse to take a breath. Already he could feel the coldness creeping into his cheeks and ears, numbness fingering his lips. Panic started to rise in him, and he struggled slightly against the arms that held him down.

Suddenly a hand siezed his hair and he was jerked out of the water, droplets flinging away as he gasped in air. He was shuddering with cold shock, almost hyperventilating, eyes wide and mouth open. Water ran down his chest in rivulets, his auburn hair hanging down in wet strands across his face.

"Farther, this time," Morgoth ordered, an edge of cruelty creeping into his voice, a steely glint in his eye. Maedhros barely caught Sauron's pained expression before he was plunged under again, this time up to his shoulders, a hand securely on the back of his head to hold him under.

Desperately he tried to slow his racing blood and to calm his thoughts, attempting to relax into the temperature. The cold was too much, though. It seemed to sink into him, taking every bit of self-control he had as he fought against the overwhelming urge to take a breath. Just as his lungs began to ache for air, they pulled him out.

Maedhros was shivering, now, still taking in choking gasps. Adrenaline rushed through him, his thoughts racing for somewhere to find a foothold. He tried to think of his brothers, his father, Maglor, Fingon, but they seemed to slip through his mind like ice through his fingers. Fighting down the rising panic, his once again tried to slow his breathing, Morgoth's words barely registering in his head.

"Bind him further."

The rattle of chains filled the small dungeon, and the long, thick coils were soon flung about him and pulled tight. His arms were pinned to his sides, any movement of them impossible. They shoved him under again, the water coming to past his ribcage. Maedhros could feel the blood leaving his face and arms, his shoulders rising involuntarily around his ears. He began to struggle, securely holding his breath, the edge of the basin prsssing painfully into his bare stomach. His lungs began to scream for air, and he fought harder, twisting as much as the chains would allow, but the orcs held him down. The cold metal became even colder under the water. Panic began to grip him, and he almost opened his mouth for a breath when the air of the dungeon met his face again as the orc pulled him upright by his hair.

They had bound his legs together, thick chains winding around them so he could hardly stand. As they pushed him under again, he fought to keep his balance, his shivers large and violent, his sternum beginning to ache.

When the orcs drew him out again, he was pale and shaking, his breaths coming in great shuddering gasps, his shoulders starting to sieze up from the cold.

"Well. great warrior, son of Feänor, I will give you one more chance to ease this suffering," Morgoth said, reveling in his distress, "You put your own head underwater this time and I will consider calling this whole endeavor off. Obey me, and you can have the rest you so clearly want."

"On-only the-the spineless obey-obey you," Maedhros stammered out, his voice quiet, teeth chattering with chills. "I am not so lucky."

"Very well," Morgoth conceded with a smile. He lifted a finger to the orcs again, and Maedhros shut his eyes and tensed to prepare himself for another dunking. Sauron, though, leaned down towards his master.

"My Lord, please, do you not think this may be too much for him?" he asked quietly, his voice carrying to where Maedhros stood. "Please, spare him, or at least, let him rest. There has been enough damage done for the time."

Morgoth waved a dismissive hand in his direction. "He will be fine, Mairon. And if we kill him, so what? The world will be no less because of it." Maedhros' spirit quailed within him. Of course he would be mourned—Morgoth was a liar, but his heart hurt nonetheless.

"Go ahead," Morgoth ordered, and to his surprise and horror, Maedhros was picked up and flung into the basin. He choked down a mouthful of water with a scream, the coldness slamming into him full force. It froze his fingers and toes, every nerve in his body shouting with pain as the freezing water took its toll. His lungs screamed for air, his mind racing with uncontrollable panic. Desperate, Maedhros began to thrash back and forth, bound by the chains, attempting to rise to the surface, but orc hands held him securely under. As one jerked his head above the surface by his hair, he took in a shuddering breath that came out more as a groan, then was pressed under again.

Maedhros felt his thoughts beginning to slow, spots flashing before his eyes, no longer able to feel his fingers or toes. His chest and lungs screamed with pain, his thrashing becoming weaker and weaker. Before he knew what he was doing he had sucked in a mouthful of water, blackness beginning to swim before him. Panic once again thrummed through him and he fought the impulse to breath again, but another mouthful of water inevitably came rushing in. Helplessness engulfed him, death looming barely before him.

Then he was thrown out upon the stone floor, dripping wet, convulsing with coughs, and freezing cold. He had already begun to shiver, still choking up water, when Morgoth rose. Maedhros did not notice when they left, only that they did, taking the basin of water with them.

Darkness and penetrating cold surrounded him, still soaking wet, on the ground. Chains, thick and cold, wrapped around him tightly, binding him firmly, immovably. He curled in on himself, shivering violently, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Hate and helplessness flew through him, hate for Morgoth, hate for Sauron, hate for his oath, who brought him here, hate for himself, who couldn't even stand a little water. Helplessness because of his immobility, because of the darkness, because of the solitude. He fought with himself, his chest expanding painfully, breaths coming labored and noisily. The chains rattled against the floor as he shivered. Water pooled around him, his hair in wet, torn tangles across his face and back. He was cold, so cold...

The quiet sound of the door opening met his ears, but he shut his eyes tighter and curled in farther, hating, hating himself. Hated whoever came in, to laugh, to jeer, to watch. Hated, hated them.

"Maedhros," a soft voice spoke.

"L-leave me," Maedhros gasped, his teeth chattering, eyes closed.

"Please, let me help." It was Sauron, Maedhros realized. He opened his eyes slightly to find, indeed, Morgoth's second in command, dressed simply in a tunic, pants and cloak. He carried a bundle of cloth, his face pained as he stood before him.

"N-no," Maedhros said, closing his eyes again. "I d-d-don't nee-need it."

"Yes, you do," Sauron said gently, kneeling down beside him. "Please, without me, you will die." Warmth suddenly engulfed Maedhros, and he cracked his eyes, looking over at Sauron.

"Wha-what if I s-say no?" he retorted.

"Then I will still help you, because as I hate to remind you, you cannot do much to prevent me," Sauron gently rebuked him.

Maedhros turned over in disgust. "L-leave me."

The warmth did not leave his side. Slowly, he felt a soft, dry cloth being pressed over him, drying him of the freezing liquid. Sauron's gentle presses moved from his back to his shoulders and arms, then down his legs and to the floor around him. Gradually, between Sauron's warmth and the toweling, Maedhros' shivers ceased. His breathing slowed to long, shuddering gasps, his back still to his caretaker.

"Turn towards me," Sauron said gently, and, reluctantly, Maedhros obeyed, rolling from his side to his back, and then to his other side, looking up at Sauron's face. He realized that there was a blanket under him, the cold stone longer pressing into his back.

"I will help you in all the ways that I can," Sauron said softly, reaching for his chains, "but I am afraid it may not be much." Maedhros was silent as he unlocked and unwrapped the chains, obeying Sauron's commands to move or lift as he worked the chains off of him. They left behind thick, painful red marks. Maedhros grimaced as Sauron pulled them away.

"I have these for you," Sauron said, reaching to hand him a rough shirt and pair of pants. "They will be warmer." Gently pushing himself upright, Maedhros rubbed his wrists where the metal had bitten into them, then after hesitating only a moment, took the clothes from him. He gingerly slipped the loose shirt on, its material sliding against his wounds, but the warmth it brought far outweighed its discomfort. He glanced down at his pants. They were the last remnant of his original clothing, the smooth elven fabric now ripped and torn, more holes than pants. He knew he must change, but he hated to part with them, ratty as they were. He glanced towards Sauron.

"I don't suppose you would have the decency to avert your eyes," he said.

"If you insist," Sauron said, to Maedhros' surprise. He turned to the wall. Quickly slipping off his elven pants and on the ones Sauron had brought, Maedhros lovingly folded the torn fabric and laid it aside, his touch lingering on the last piece of home he had.

"You are fine," he said to Sauron, who turned back around.

"Better?" Sauron asked, concern creasing his brows.

Maedhros nodded. "Yes."

"I have to chain you again," Sauron said reluctantly, reaching for the bindings, "but I will do my best not to hurt you."

"You've already done that," Maedhros said harshly. Hurt flashed across Sauron's face, but Maedhros felt no regret.

"Please," Sauron said quietly, and Maedhros proffered his wrists. He snapped them into the shakles, then wound the chains about them, securing them firmly to each other.

"Ankles." Maedhros slid them around, and Sauron repeated the process.

"You are tired and still need warmth. While you may have recovered from the initial coldness, you are not safe yet," Sauron instructed. "I am going to stay here, with you, whether you like it or not, until you are completely warm and dry."

"And I suppose I have your love to thank for this, too?" Maedhros snorted. Already he could feel the heavy hand of sleep upon him.

Sauron's gaze softened. "Yes. Now here, lay down." Reluctantly, Maedhros lay back on the blanket, Sauron reaching inside the folds of his tunic to bring out a thick-toothed comb. Gently lifting Maedhros' head and upper back to lay on his knees, Sauron slowly began combing through his hair.

Maedhros' eyes fluttered shut, warmth surrounding him for the first time in he did not know how long. Knots and tangles were smoothed beneath the comb, the last of the wetness brushed out. Though his scalp was tender from the jerks and pulls, Sauron was careful and gentle. His elegant fingers worked through the tough strands, brushing out Maedhros' thick auburn hair to lay smoothly across his lap.

Gradually, Maedhros fell into a doze, the lazy fingers through his hair taking him back to a simpler time. Golden light wafted through the windows, his head upon Fingon's lap as they lounged upon a wide windowsill in Tirion. Fingon—or was it Sauron?— hummed absentmindedly as he ran his fingers through the auburn strands, gentle and relaxing. Sleep began to creep upon him, the breeze of Valinor bushing against his cheek—or was that Sauron's touch? He sighed deeply, his brow relaxing, his eyes closing gently.

"Thank you, Fingon," he murmured half-consciously. Sauron smiled, quiet as he continued combing.

Maedhros did not feel him leave hours later.


	4. Chapter 4

The slightest sound from outside awoke him, the cold of the dungeon beginning to soak into him. He dozed fitfully, eyelids heavy, but too exhausted for any deep sleep. Eventually, the sharp pains faded into one long, continuous ache, the blood drying on his wrists and arms. His heart beat feebly, his breaths uneven but slow. Darkness pervaded his thoughts, nothing coherent passing through but for a sentence here and there. He seemed to melt into the shadows, finding some semblance of peace in the quiet solitude.

...everything hurt...

...water?...

...hope they're all right...

A shuddering sigh took him.

...please...

...sleep.

The cell door opened, a ray of light shining upon him. Maedhros flinched away from the light, his steadied breathing growing quick once again. He shut his eyes in foreboding, a dark shape stepping unfeelingly to his side. There was a pause, the nothingness kindling more fear inside him, but a hand touched him, slathering some thick paste upon his burns. He cried out softly for the pain, then bit his lip and turned away, glancing up to see Sauron in front of him once more.

"What—" Maedhros gasped tremblingly. "Why are—you—"

"Why am I here?" Sauron answered coldly. "Don't you ever listen? I told you that I am the only one who can do this. Would you rather have a Balrog curing your burns?"

"N-no, master," Maedhros said weakly.

"Good. Now shut up." Sauron roughly painted the rest of the paste on, then turned abruptly and left as quickly as he came. Darkness once more engulfed him. The paste, though it ached at first, soothed the burns scoring his chest. It became easier to breathe, his skin stretching more normally. Maedhros sighed, his eyes fluttering shut once again. Sleep seemed to slip through his fingers, each moment he thought he might finally slip into oblivion escaping him.

Attempting to fall into his memories, he called to mind the light of Valinor, painting the picture of the white halls and bright hangings around him. He imagined his brothers' laughter echoing through the corridors, the pattering of their running footsteps crossing the doorways. Fingon stood beside him, steady and comforting, but the playful laughter changed to wicked cackles, the light swallowed by shadow. The bright colors faded to deep red, the crimson of new blood, Fingon's face twisting in hatred as his figure towered above him.

"I hate you!"

Maedhros shrank back before him, desperately wrenching himself out of his dream. He shuddered, opening his eyes to the dark, casting around desperately for some sort of anchor to the storm. Morgoth and Sauron had accomplished their goal—they had destroyed his one safe place, his one refuge. He would not be able to use them as comfort again.

Gods, what could he do. He could not rely on himself, for Sauron had targeted his heart and hit hard. He would almost certainly never return to Valinor, and drafty tents were not much comfort, even here. What helped in the dark...so, so dark...

It was dark. So, so dark. The freezing wind ripped around him, threatening to tug the thick cloak off of his shoulders. His boots sank up to the ankles in snow, his hands tucked close to his chest as he gripped his cloak tightly around himself. Fingon did not know for how long they had traveled, nor how much farther they had to go. They had lost many already—some to cold, some to the freezing water and unstable ice. Thank goodness they had found a relatively stable place to rest for some time.

Shadows flickered through the darkness, the wind obscuring the whispered words that were spoken among the small groups that lined his walkway. Huddled together for warmth, the elves shivered against the wind, children curled in their mothers' laps, fathers' arms around them both. Fingon turned away and trudged to the front of the column, looking for the tall form of his father.

Sure enough, it was not long before the cloaked figure, standing strong against the wind, hove into view.

"Father," Fingon said, stepping up beside him.

"Fingon." Fingolfin nodded in greeting, looking out on the expanse of ice in front of them.

"Your mind is elsewhere, is it not?" Fingon asked, tucking his fingers farther into his cloak.

"Yes," Fingolfin sighed, then turned towards him, stepping closer to converse over the wind. "How is everyone?"

Fingon hesitated. "Not well," he said finally. "The sooner we get to land, the better."

"I've spoken with Argon, before he walked back as well. He says the same." He looked back behind himself, his eyes steady in the dark. "Turgon and Aredhel are there. Go to them, and get some rest." His gaze softened. "You have been doing much to aid me, and the people. I thank you for that."

"You're welcome," Fingon replied with a slight smile, "I want to help any way I can. We've lost too many already."

Fingolfin smiled, reaching out to clasp his shoulder. "Get some rest," he said gently. Fingon nodded, then turned away to the shadowy figure his father had motioned to.

"Turgon," Fingon sighed in greeting as he seated himself beside his brother, back to the wind and shoulders touching.

"Fingon," Turgon nodded.

"Where's Aredhel? Father said she was with you," Fingon said, scanning the snow flurries.

"You know how hard it is to keep her in one place," Turgon said, casting a sideways look at his brother, "she went off...doing something."

"Well, here's hoping she won't fall off the ice somewhere."

Turgon snorted. "Honestly, sometimes I hope she will."

Fingon smiled, though truly, he wished his sister would stick close to them. Her wandering would get her into trouble one day, but if she was lost here, he would never forgive himself.

Slowly, the wind began to die down, the snow ceasing. A slight breeze blew past, the cold lessening somewhat. Fingon's eyes began to close with weariness.

"What do you miss the most?" Turgon said thoughtfully. "In Valinor, I mean."

Fingon was quiet. "I guess I miss the warmth, right now," he said, attempting to joke, "I would give a lot to sleep in a bed, too!"

Turgon smiled. "Me too. I think I miss the others. I just miss spending time with you, and Aredhel, and Ambarussa, and Atarince..."

And Maitimo, Fingon added silently. He missed him terribly. More than anyone. He thought of his cousin, most likely asleep in some warm tent somewhere, or speaking with his brothers, or sparring with his soldiers. Or thinking of you, his mind whispered. A vision of Maitimo, standing alone, perhaps, or bent over a table, rose to his mind. His clear eyes would grow distant, his strong profile silhouetted against his auburn hair, a few strands falling into his face. He would reach up to brush them behind his ear, his fingers trailing down his neck, his chest rising as he sighed. Fingon missed the smile that touched his lips whenever he looked upon him, and wished that those lips would touch his own...to be held by his strong arms, wrapped in warmth, pressed securely to his chest...

"Fingon?" Turgon was looking at him expectantly.

"What?" Fingon said, shaking his head. "Sorry, I got lost for a moment."

To his surprise, his brother glanced searchingly at him.

"You miss him, don't you?" he asked quietly.

Fingon paused, then nodded slowly. "Very much." Turgon nodded, too, then scooted closer and leaned his head on his shoulder, closing his eyes and crossing his arms for warmth.

"You should get some rest, too, you know," he whispered tiredly.

"Mm," Fingon answered, then relaxed into his brother with a sigh. His eyes closed, his mind slowing for sleep. His thoughts lingered on Maitimo.

"You'll see him again," Turgon murmured.

"Mm." Fingon hoped desperately so.

They whipped him again, chaining him to opposite walls. He fell to his knees after the first few lashes, no food or drink taking its toll. The whip sliced his back into bloody tatters, Maedhros crying with pain. He could feel it flow down his back and pool on the floor, smell its sharpness, see the red spreading across the stone. Sauron observed from a dark corner.

After they departed, kneeling in his own blood, his stomach wrapped itself into knots, his abdominal muscles tight with hunger. He clenched his jaw in pain, and soon he had a headache, but from the stomach cramps or lack of water, he could not tell. The world swam before his eyes, tongue swollen in his mouth, thoughts slow and sluggish. Desperation set in, the overwhelming wish for water his only desire.

Still no one came.

"Water," he croaked softly, hoping someone, something, would hear. "Water."

Silence.

His tongue flashed over his parched lips. "Water," he said again, this time louder. "Water!"

No one came.

His back had scabbed over, the blood under his feet a dry splash, by the time the door opened. He could hardly lift his head to see the familiar, dreaded shape in the doorway.

"All right, pet, we're going to try some things out," Sauron said, his words barely registering in Maedhros' fevered mind. "I am going to tell you to do something, and you are going to obey. Understand?"

Maedhros nodded weakly.

"Good enough," Sauron conceded, then entered the room with a short stepstool and a small bag. With a snap of his fingers, Sauron lit the torch on the wall. He waved for the door to be shut, and it was closed, leaving him and Maedhros alone.

Sauron crossed to him, unhooking one of the shakles from the wall. Maedhros sagged father down to the floor, pulled in the direction of the other chain. Unhooking that one as well, Sauron jerked his wrists around to the front, chaining them securely together. He slumped back over his knees

"There," he sighed matter-of-factly, "Now come here. I have something you may want." Maedhros sat up slowly, looking with blurry vision to Sauron, who had seated himself upon the stool and opened the bag. "Come here," he ordered again. Obediently, Maedhros shuffled towards him, too hungry and thirsty to care about much else. "Look up, now." Maedhros tilted his chin upwards, lips parted slightly. Much to his relief he felt the opening of a waterskin being pressed to them, and he eagerly sucked down the cool liquid.

"Not too fast, now," Sauron chuckled, pulling it away, watching him reach weakly for it, panting for breath. Carefully, he slid a hand under Maedhros' chin, holding the waterskin to his mouth once more and letting him drain the rest of it. Almost immediately, Maedhros' vision cleared, his thoughts becoming clearer. He licked his lips, enjoying the sensation, feeling the fight return to his body.

"Hungry?" Sauron asked.

Maedhros nodded. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes," he hesitated, "master."

"Good. Now, sit back," Sauron said, taking a small piece of bread from the bag. "And if you want this, beg."

Maedhros glared up at him. Gods, he knew what he was doing. A satisfied smirk crossed his face.

"I know you want this," Sauron said teasingly, fingering the bread in front of him. "Come on now. Beg."

Saliva filled Maedhros' mouth, causing him to swallow both that and his pride before answering. "Please...master," he said jerkily. "Please."

Sauron shook his head. "Not good enough. Beg."

"Please, master, I'm hungry," Maedhros said, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.

"No."

"Please, master! Please!" Hunger overtook him, his brow furrowing as he stared pleadingly up at Sauron. "Please!"

"Mmm, better," Sauron conceded, dangling the bread over his head and reveling in his gasps and swallows as he watched it. Slowly, he lowered it to within his reach, and Maedhros ripped it from his fingers with his teeth, practically choking it down.

"Now, what shall I have you do this time," Sauron mused, looking around the room as Maedhros licked his lips and wished for more. "Mm...come closer," Sauron said, "and put you head here." He smoothed his robes down, patting his thigh. Maedhros' insides twisted with disgust, but he shuffled closer and hesitated only a moment before placing his chin on Sauron's thigh.

"There's a good boy," Sauron crooned, running his fingers through Maedhros' hair and petting his head. Pulling his hand away, he gave Maedhros a sharp slap across his face. Maedhros bent away, his cheek smarting, but he said nothing. "You're learning!" Sauron said approvingly. "Here." He tossed a piece of bread to the floor, and Maedhros lunged after it, eager to get away from Sauron.

"Now, tell me how your kinsfolk died," Sauron said as Maedhros finished the small piece. He removed a fist-sized chunk of bread from the bag. "Tell me how they died, and I will give you all of this." He fingered it smugly, watching as Maedhros' expression flicked from one of pain to one of guarded suspicion.

"Why, don't you already know?" he said snidely.

"Did I ask you?" Sauron hissed dangerously, causing Maedhros to flinch away. "Tell me how your kinsfolk died."

Maedhros swallowed. "They died when my father tried to take the ships."

"How?"

"With force."

"Who helped him?"

"My brothers." Maedhros said.

"And who else?"

"No one."

"Wrong!" Sauron shouted, leaning forwards to stare piercingly at him, "You did! You participated, willingly, in the murder of your own kin. Terrible, yes, and traitorous! They had been peaceful, and you slaughtered them! Now, repeat after me: I am a kinslayer."

Maedhros' spirit quailed. He hadn't enjoyed that even for moment. He had done what he could—he could not have turned against his father or thrown himself in the middle; he himself would have been killed. This was the oath's doing, the duties of a lawful son—he was innocent!

"Say it, or you won't get this," Sauron said, beginning to put the bread away. Maedhros' hunger won out.

"All right! All right." He drew a long breath, then looked Sauron in the eye. "I...am a murderer."

"Again," Sauron said steadily, staring right back.

"I am a murderer."

"Again."

"I am a murderer," Maedhros whispered, his lip trembling. His gaze dropped slowly to the floor.

"That's right, pet," Sauron said, then tossed the bread to the floor. Maedhros was upon it in a second. "That's exactly right. You are learning." Sauron watched him wolf down the bread, his satisfied gaze resting on his flayed back as Maedhros ripped the food to shreds and downed it in seconds. Gods, it felt good to have something in his stomach again!

"What do we say?" Sauron prompted.

"Thank you, master," Maedhros gasped, this time truly grateful for the food.

"All right, now, pet, come and sit up here," Sauron said, standing from the stool and moving to sit on the stone pedestal. He patted the seat beside him as Maedhros sat stiffly on the floor. "Come on, now, don't forget what might happen if you don't!" He lifted his hand casually, causing a few sparks to fly upwards from his fingertips. Maedhros bent his head and half stood on unsteady legs, walking to the stone slab.

"Good boy," Sauron said soothingly as Maedhros lowered himself down beside him. "Turn around." As Maedhros slid his legs over the stone, Sauron stood, walking around him to loop a chain over his ankles and another around his elbows to keep him anchored in place. Half-sitting up, Maedhros followed him coldly as he circled back to seat himself at his head.

"Lay back, now," Sauron ordered, arranging himself behind Maedhros. Cautiously Maedhros let himself fall back, expecting pain at any moment, but instead he felt the softness of rich fabric, Sauron positioning his head in his lap. He could feel Sauron's hips by his right shoulder, his knees by his left. Maedhros stared at the ceiling, avoiding Sauron's sly gaze from above.

"All right, pet, I know how handsome you are now, but I know how much a little blood can improve an appearance. Besides, with that lovely face of yours, do you know how much I want you?" From the small bag, he withdrew a short knife, the light glinting maliciously off the small blade. "You're just so good when you're in pain, anyways." Maedhros' breath quickened as he brought the knife lower, enjoying his widened eyes and tensed muscles. Maedhros closed his eyes as to not see Sauron's face, the knife brushing his cheek.

"Don't move, now, or this might end up somewhere you don't want it," Sauron said gently. He pressed the knife down into the flesh beneath his right eye, blood beading along the blade before trickling slowly down. Maedhros felt the pain and bit his lip to keep silent. Sauron pressed harder, the blade cutting into the soft skin, then curved his stroke slowly upwards, tracing a deep line along the bottom of his eye socket. Maedhros whimpered, but kept still, every muscle in his body clenched against the pain. Removing the knife, Sauron moved the point to beside his nose, then pressed hard. Maedhros could feel the blade tear in to kiss the bone, then slide along it, slicing his cheek wide open. A whine escaped him.

"Mm, yes, that was good," Sauron sighed. "Do it again." He made another long, deep slice below the first, Maedhros letting out another whine, his brows furrowed in pain. "Oh gods, you're so fine when you do that!"

He plunged the knife in again, slicing crosswise to his previous cuts and sending rivers of blood down Maedhros' cheek. Whimpers of pain left his mouth as Sauron carved up his face, the right side soon completely destroyed. Hot blood flowed freely.

"I can't leave the other side untouched, can I?" Sauron said, enjoyment clearly heard in his voice. Maedhros shifted as the blade was raised, preparing himself for another nightmare. Gently touching the tip of the knife to his forehead, Sauron delicately scooped upwards, watching the skin tear across the sharpness. He sighed in pleasure, then did it again, tearing the skin open from his forehead over his closed eye across his cheek and down to his chin. Maedhros let out a broken cry. Making another quick cut across the bridge of his nose, Sauron grinned at his handiwork.

"So much prettier now, pet," he sighed, "almost as pretty as those sounds you make." Setting the knife aside, he brushed Maedhros' face with his fingers before pressing his thumbnail hard into a cut. Involuntarily Maedhros whined again, Sauron twisting his nail harder to draw it from him again.

"Oh, gods, yes, that's perfect," he moaned as he lifted his nail out only to dig it in to a different spot. "Again." Maedhros obliged, not even trying to avoid the order. He could feel the flesh grow more twisted and torn beneath his hands.

"So, so fine. So perfect, pet. One more time, now." The whine left his throat, long and strangled. Sauron removed his nail. "Good boy," he crooned. He sat back, admiring the blood streaming across Maedhros' face, then ran a teasing hand down his chin and over his neck. Quickly withdrawing his hand, he swung himself off the pedestal, Maedhros' head falling listlessly to the stone. Blood pooled beneath it, staining the stone, as Sauron unchained him from the slab. Suddenly twisting a hand in his hair, Sauron jerked him off his back and onto the floor, Maedhros letting out a shout of pain in answer. Dragging him back to the center of the room, he chained him up as before, his arms stretched to the opposite walls, pulling his shoulders tight as he sagged over his knees.

"You've learned a lot today, pet," Sauron said, leaning down to look him in the eyes. "Now, what did you learn? About your kinsfolk?"

"I killed them," Maedhros said hoarsely, blood from his face filling his mouth, his cheek stretching excruciatingly.

"Good. And what do you say to me?"

"Thank you, master," Maedhros mumbled, blood spilling across his lips and running down his chest.

"Again."

"Thank you, master." He bent his head in defeat.

"Good. I will be back, with more for you, pet. Besides, your hair looks like it needs washing," Sauron said with a grin, then swept from the room, taking up the stool and bag and extinguishing the torch with a snap. The room was dark again as soon as the door closed, the steady drip, drip of blood from his face the only sound.

Sauron swept down the corridors, in a good mood. Smiling to himself, his confident steps caused all before him to cower to the corners. He strode to Morgoth's throne room, where the Dark Lord lounged on his throne, shadow and flame flickering around the base, his dark eyes narrowed in thought.

"Come from the prisoner?" Morgoth said distractedly.

"Yes," Sauron said, striding down the spacious stone walkway, the black arches rising above him.

"How is he responding?"

"Not as well as I thought," Sauron sighed, climbing the stairs, "He submits and obeys, but has not quite snapped. I will still need to work with him."

"I am going to send an emissary to his brothers," Morgoth said, sitting up and looking to him as he stood at his side. "I will demand their surrender, or at the least their immediate departure, with their brother as compensation. I suspect they will be too proud to accept."

"I highly agree," Sauron said. "They are too stubborn to know what is good for them."

"However," Morgoth mused, lifting a finger, "we can use this to our advantage. They will refuse it—imagine how much effect that would have upon our prisoner. But in the meantime, double down on the physical side of things. Degrade him. Mock him. If they do want him back, then they shall receive him broken and half mad."

"Or all mad," Sauron added, a smile twisting his face. He nodded. "I will be certain to do as you say. I believe that the desire angle is getting to him."

"Then exploit it." Morgoth rose, sweeping from the chamber, Sauron following.

"Humiliation may be the key, if we strip him of his pride," he mused, "but I will cook up something elaborate once we learn of his brothers' refusal."

"Mm."

"Your mind is elsewhere, My Lord?"

Morgoth did not answer, striding along the dark corridors, up stairs and around corners. Darkness followed in his wake, torches flickering to almost nothing as they passed, Sauron keeping an eye on them to make sure they stayed lit.

"My armies are strong," Morgoth glowered darkly, "My hosts innumerable, my servants faithful, my armies ready, my walls high and strong. And still I have to wait, to cower, instead of smashing those insolent Feänorions like flies." He swept up the stairs, the light from the Silmarils lighting his way as he strode through the darkness, his long cloak flickering with smoke at the ends. Sauron trailed behind, his light footsteps contrasting with the heavy ones of his lord. "Every minute they sit there, mocking me with their very presence. How long must I wait before I can crush them?"

"Surely not long, My Lord," Sauron said reassuringly, "Once they refuse, we will have every right to attack them."

"Yes, Mairon, you are right," Morgoth sighed. "I will have to preoccupy myself with other matters until then."

"Might I ask what other matters these might be?" Sauron asked craftily, recognizing the door outside which Morgoth paused.

"How about...yourself," Morgoth said, lifting his chin and swinging the door open to reveal the large bed hung with black that Sauron knew waited for them.

"I have no other plans for now," Sauron said, stepping inside, "but even if I did—"

"Shhhh..." Morgoth whispered, closing the door and sliding up to him. He lifted the crown of Silmarils from his brow and gently set it aside, his eyes never leaving Sauron's. "Now is not the time for speech, precious."

"Really?" Sauron said, his breath quickening as desire began to blossom within him, "If so, then make me be quiet."

Morgoth smiled seductively, sliding his hands around Sauron's waist. "I said it was not the time for speech; I did not ask you to be quiet." Swiftly he leaned down to crush Sauron's lips with his own, working his mouth expertly as Sauron's eyes fluttered shut.

"Mmmm..." he murmured as he felt Morgoth's tongue on his own, then gasped as the Dark Lord moved to his neck, a bite drawing a groan from him. His fingers began to work his back, his leg creeping up around Morgoth's waist.

"You are so beautiful, Mairon," Morgoth murmured against his skin, biting at his neck passionately as his hands worked to draw the fabric away from his shoulders. "So, so gorgeous..." Sauron leaned into him, grinding his hips against his own, his brow furrowing with love and desire. As Morgoth slowly pushed him back to the bed, biting up and down his neck and shoulders, he knew that he would always love this, this passionate and dangerous love, built on loyalty and maintained by lust. This—he—was worth all the Valar and all their creations put together, and Sauron loved it.

Maedhros cowered beneath their blows, shielding his head with his bound hands. Smashed with clubs, raked with claws, beaten, and beaten again, he curled his knees to his chest, shaking with fear and pain. He had lost count how many times they had done this—taken him to another room, then returned him some time later, battered and bleeding. It all blended together, now, and he had begun to accept it in an apathetic, hopeless kind of way. There was no way he could win. They could end his life in a moment, a quick slice to the throat or a stab to the chest. It would all be over so fast.

With a frustrated roar, the orc standing over him seized his hair and jerked his head back, exposing the skin of his throat. Maedhros' face twisted with pain, and the orc threw him back to the floor, grasping his shoulder and pushing him to his back. A sharp kick to the side caused him to buckle around the pain, but another orc kicked him onto his stomach, then planted a knee on his waist and cracked a whip over his back. Maedhros flexed under the weight with a scream, but was held fast though the pressure lessened somewhat. Encouraged, he bent inwards, trying to throw him off, and to his surprise, the orc fell away. Fierce joy like he had not felt for a long time flashed through him, and he tried to right himself, but angry roars echoed in his ears and he found himself on his stomach, crushed to the stone by the weight of the two gigantic orcs. One had a knee across his neck, the other kneeling across his hips and legs. They lashed his back mercilessly, Maedhros' tortured cries turning slowly to silence as spots flashed before his vision. His chest ached as he tried to draw breath, his airflow slowly being cut off. A familiar shadow loomed in the doorway.

"Sauron—" Maedhros choked out, eyes beginning to unfocus, "master, please—" The figure did not move.

Finally, they drew back, Maedhros taking in a gasping breath and dissolving into the hacking and painful coughs that had begun to plague him.

Not waiting until he ceased, one orc twisted a hand through his hair, grasping his waist and flinging him into the wall. Maedhros fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, his lungs screaming as he coughed, deep and terrible. With another roar, the other orc grasped his shoulders as threw him across the floor, Maedhros skidding to a halt against the wall. His eyes were shut tightly, body shaken by deep, rasping coughs, blood dripping from his ruined back. He lifted pleading eyes to the figure in the doorway.

"Master...master, please...make them stop..." he groaned, his lungs expanding painfully. "Please..."

Still the figure was motionless. The orcs crossed to him again, Maedhros protectively crumpling in on himself, whimpering through the pain. With rough hands, they dragged him back to the middle of the floor, throwing him onto the stone before retrieving their clubs. Blows assaulted him once again, and he glimpsed the tall, immovable figure in the doorway before something smashed into his temple, slamming his head to the ground.

Blackness swam before his eyes before he was swallowed by the merciful dark.

Maglor stared at the maps. He had no idea where to move next. They held a relatively good position at the shores of the lake, but were almost hemmed in by mountains and dangerously close to Angband. They had two choices: either retreat to find better ground and to strengthen their forces, or attack now.

They were reasonably strong, with a good supply of arms and a fair number of those who could skillfully wield them. They could definitely do some damage to Morgoth's forces should they run him down, but all in all, they would be destroyed, most likely. Still, if they utilized the less guarded passes leaning to Angband, they did have a chance, if but a small one. Maglor sighed. He didn't think himself suited for these kinds of things. Movement at tent flap caused him to turn.

"Caranthir," he said, relieved. "I was just looking over the maps again."

"I know," Caranthir said, crossing to stand beside him, "you have been for the past three hours."

"I just don't know what to do," Maglor confessed, looking back over the ink lines, "this is not my area of expertise."

"That I also know," Caranthir grinned. He stared down at the maps, then over at his brother. "Look, you already know my opinion on this matter, so why don't you go and exercise your expertise? You haven't brought out your harp in quite some time."

"You're asking me to play? You were almost always going on about how annoying I was back home."

"I didn't say sing near here! I just said..." Caranthir waved a hard around his head. "Play something to take your mind off things, preferably somewhere I cannot hear you."

Maglor smiled. "You have changed my mind with your compelling arguments, but could it also be that you are commandeering this room to formulate another plan of attack?"

Caranthir sighed as Maglor started for the tent flap. "Curufin says that if I come up with a good enough plan, he may consider switching to agreeing with the attack option instead of—"

"—of running off into the wilderness, I know," Maglor finished with a smile. "Good luck. I know how particular he is."

"Don't we all," Caranthir grinned, then turned back to the maps. "I will see you later."

Maglor nodded and drew aside the tent flap. It was a little warmer today, only a slight breeze wafting through camp. The chatter that accompanied daily activities followed him as he walked to his tent, elves flitting in and out of the canvas walls and across the dirt and grass pathways. His mind was quiet, still trying to rid itself of the battle plans and status reports and weapons reviews.

That was not his domain.

Opening the flap to his own small tent, he relaxed at the sight of the familiar surroundings. Letting the tent flap fall back into place behind him, Maglor crossed softly to the cot draped with messy blankets. Sinking down upon it for a moment, he closed his eyes, quietly unwinding in the little corner of his own. He sighed again, opening his eyes, then slid off the cot to pull a case from underneath it. Covered with fine fabric that was becoming worn at the corners, Maglor had fashioned it himself to hold his harp. He remembered measuring the instrument, cutting the wood, padding it with soft silks and laying the harp softly inside. He had carried it with him, the small instrument a piece of home and comfort here in this strange land. Unbuckling the straps that held it closed, he carefully lifted the lid and slid the harp out from where it rested. Gold and silver leaves and flowers twisted elegantly across its surface, its weight familiar in his hands. Maglor smiled as he admired it, settling himself back on his cot.

He adjusted the blankets around himself, clasping the harp between his knees and steadying it with one hand. It felt so good—so familiar, so natural. He plucked the strings, one by one, his careful ear checking their tune. Still perfect. He closed his eyes, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and picked at the strings. Low and beautiful he began, a mindless melody to make sure he had not forgotten his skill. Moving higher, he decided to attempt a song he had played often in Valinor. Plucking the intro, he cleared his throat, humming the melody the first time, his fingers finding the correct strings all on their own. The breeze wafted around him, delicate harmonies drifting through the warmed air. Swallowing and taking a breath, he began to sing.

It was wonderful to be doing this again, what he loved. He fell gently into the music, his clear tenor causing all who heard to stop and listen. Maglor had forgotten how well he knew this song; teasingly he drew out the ends of phrases, only to fall back into the next line. He reveled in the feel of his voice, the reverberation in his chest, the freedom of the high notes, the intricate accompaniment of the harp underneath. Leaning into it, he drew out the final stanza, adding length and volume, his brow furrowing with concentration, then relaxed into the last verse, swaying with the motion of his hands and breaths. Letting his eyes flutter open with the last, spinning note, he noticed the shadow of someone standing by the entrance to his tent.

"Come in," Maglor said, still plucking the ending to the piece. A small elven boy whom Maglor recognized as a page of some sort hesitated for a moment, then stepped inside.

"Lord Maglor?" he asked uncertainly, his eyes flicking to the harp.

"Yes, you have found him," Maglor said gently, smiling and laying the harp down. "What is it?"

"Your brothers request your presence. They said there is something approaching, and they think it may be an emissary of Morgoth."

Maglor quickly rose to his feet, then bent down to tuck the harp back in its case. "I will be there at once," he said, pushing the case back under the cot, "where are they?"

"I will take you to them," the boy said, then turned from the tent and hurried out the flap down the corridors between tents. Maglor followed on his heels, his cape playing out behind him as he almost ran, questions flashing through his mind. An emissary from Morgoth—

It had been months since Maedhros was taken. While not a day passed when he did not think of him, Maglor thought that he had moved past living without his brother. They were not doing well, but they were surviving on their own, moving past the plans they had initially mapped out. But what if this had nothing to do with Maedhros? Maglor cursed himself for being so news hungry, his mind jumping to his brother every time news of Morgoth was delivered. However, Morgoth knew Maedhros' value as a hostage. If he had come to offer a bargain, Maglor was ready to sacrifice much to get his brother back.

The rest of his brothers stood at the edge of camp, assembled with a host of warriors, facing the large plain that separated them from the mountains. Maglor thanked the boy, then skirted through the crowd to their sides. The expressions on their faces were all the same: stony resolve and determination. Following their gazes, Maglor saw the slow moving specks of gray, white and brown that their eyes had trained upon.

"Emissaries?" Maglor asked quietly to no one in particular.

"We think so," Celegorm said, "Our scouts saw them before they left the mountains and quickly rode this way to report to us."

"They are certainly taking their time," Amrod growled, narrowing his eyes.

"If they are not riding hard to meet us, they have no reason to hurry and must be emissaries," Curufin reasoned. Caranthir snorted.

"Yes, unless they are sending us presents before they destroy us," he said sarcastically. "Opposing forces always ride at breakneck speed into battle, so going in slow must mean good intentions!"

Curufin leaned over to Maglor. "He is just angry because I said no to yet another of his attack plans," he whispered, smirking slightly. Maglor smiled as well, but it was uneasy and faded quickly. He pulled his cloak around himself, giving the troops and his brothers a quick once-over before once again turning to watch the specks grow larger.

He looked out of place among his armor-clad brothers and arrayed soldiers, his dark tunic and soft boots contrasting with the bright silver of polished metal. Yet another factor not in my favor, he thought wryly to himself, you can certainly tell I'm not a soldier. But humor turned to foreboding as the shapes grew closer, the waiting host of elves still and steady.

Only a few hundred yards away, the shapes became recognizable through the grass. Twenty or thirty orcs, mounted on huge wolves, trotted across the plain, bearing black banners and outfitted with heavy armor and gleaming weapons. Their leader was already noticeably taller than the rest, a scarred and fearsome looking white wolf as his mount. They rode up to halt opposite the sons of Feänor, their steeds growling and glaring at them. The lead orc spoke.

"We are emissaries of the Dark Lord Morgoth, and bid treat with the Sons of Feänor," he said, his hoarse voice carrying across to where the elves stood, unmoving. "We require assurances that you will not harm us on this errand."

"You did not allow such courtesy to our brother," Caranthir burst out, eyes flashing, "Why should we allow you anything different?"

Curufin stopped him with a gentle touch to his shoulder. "Of course, please allow us to assure you that you are to be left to come and go safely," he said, his diplomatic tone carrying clearly, "Believe me when I say that you could have been dead many times ere you arrived, and, as my brother so courteously reminds you, you honored no such word to our brother."

"Our message concerns him," the head orc grinned, his mount dancing underneath him. Whispers and glances flew through the elven ranks, the brothers' eyes widening in surprise. "Now, if you don't mind, take us into your camp to a place where we can treat properly."

Maglor cast a quick glance to the others. "Not inside camp," he said sharply, "here. Maedhros did not get to his final destination, and neither should they."

"I agree," Caranthir said. "Besides, it will keep our layout more secret."

"Agreed," Amras said, Amrod nodding beside him.

"We will treat with you here," Curufin shouted to Morgoth's host, "As our brother did not make it to a civil place to bargain, neither shall you."

"Very well," the lead orc growled, and the host slipped off their mounts. Striding menacingly to the front of the open ground between the two groups, a half dozen orcs advanced to meet the sons of Feänor. They stopped several feet apart, hostility nearly palpable, glares exchanged by both sides.

"What does your master say?" Maglor said, looking piercingly to the lead orc, desperation to hear any news of Maedhros rising.

"The Dark Lord Morgoth bids us make you an offer," the orc answered, "During an attack some time ago, the High King of the Noldōr was captured. For the price of his life returned to you, the Dark Lord requires you to move away from these lands immediately and swear to abandon your oath."

"What?" Caranthir said loudly, but was immediately hushed by his brothers.

"When would you return him to us?" Maglor asked, folding his arms, "For if we leave with only empty promises of his return and you withhold him for even a day, there will surely be consequences." He stared hard into the full eyes of the orc, hoping to impress upon it how serious he truly was.

"That we would negotiate on your acceptance of the terms," the orc said slyly.

"And those are to simply leave this place and abandon our oath," Celegorm clarified.

"Yes," the orc hissed in response. The brothers exchanged a glance.

"We require some time for debate," Curufin said, ever strategic. "We will step aside and inform you of our decision."

"As you wish," the orc growled, then stepped back as well to converse in growls with its fellows. The brothers turned from them, walking a clear distance away before halting. Pained looks were passed around.

"Damn this oath," Caranthir swore angrily, the rest of his brothers nodding emphatically.

"We can't just leave him there!" Amras said.

"We may have to," Celegorm said quietly, Maglor nodding sadly in his direction.

"What, leave him to die in Morgoth's clutches, while we sit and do nothing?" Amrod snorted, "Morgoth lied. Surely we can too."

"Say we leave, pack everything, and begin to move out. Once we have Maedhros, we circle back and catch them by surprise," Caranthir proposed, the light of battle shining in his eyes.

"No!" Maglor said forcefully, startling them, "No. Because Morgoth is a lying traitor does not mean we get to lower ourselves to his level." He sighed heavily, despair sinking back into his chest. "We did not swear the oath lightly. That is our fate. We knew what we were getting into when we took it, and Maedhros did too." He hesitated. "I do not think he would want us to abandon all honor and decency merely for himself."

"Oh, damn him! He is not here, Maglor," Caranthir said suddenly, "and we need to get him back. A simple lie is all it would take to decimate Morgoth, get Maedhros back and fulfill our oath!"

"Caranthir," Curufin reminded him dangerously. Caranthir took a deep breath.

"Look," he said plainly, hurt flashing in his eyes, "we have already lost everything. The goodwill of the Valar, the friendship of our relatives, our father, and our brother. What more do we have to lose?"

"Much," Amrod said loudly, causing all to turn to him. His face was set in a reserved calmness. "We have each other to lose. Without Maedhros—" he paused, "—with Maedhros I realized how important you all are. We have to stick together, what we have now." Amras grasped his hand in comfort, taking up his speech.

"I love him as much as any of you here, and he means so much to me, but we have to hold onto what we have now. I think...we should stay here."

Curufin nodded. "Stay here, stay true to our honor and our word, even in Morgoth does not."

"Uphold Maedhros' words," Celegorm added quietly.

"Very well," Caranthir said, bowing his head. "So be it."

They were silent for another moment, the wind fondling their hair and cloaks, before Maglor spoke.

"Then let us go inform them of our decision."

The six turned back towards the orcs, spreading to walk side by side as they once more faced Morgoth's emissaries.

"What have you decided?" the head orc prompted.

"We have decided to remain here, true to our oath and our brother," Curufin said, strength underlying his words. "We will not accept your terms."

"Think carefully, princelings," the orc growled dangerously, "Think of the hurt this will cause you, and the pain it could cause your brother." Maglor's stomach twisted, but Curufin kept his steady gaze and clear tone.

"We will not accept, and bid your master that he send more competent emissaries to the sons of Feänor, rather than a few beat-up novices on underfed puppies," he said smartly, then turned with a swirl and strode back to camp. The orc growled in anger but made no move to follow, swinging up upon his mount's back.

"As proof of your refusal, we require some token of your word," he said, staring down at them. The brothers looked quickly at each other.

"Here," Celegorm said suddenly, and dashed back to the soldiers. Speaking quickly with one, he took something from the man's hand and ran back to the others. "This should be suitable." Reaching out, he handed a small handful of cloth to the orc, who shook it out roughly. A long, fine banner of dark red cloth trailed from his rough hand, a white Feänorian star stitched in the middle. "This should remind you of the sons of Feänor," Celegorm said, his eyes flashing.

"Very well," the orc conceded, shoving the banner into a pouch hung on his waist. "Our master bids you farewell, and do not forget who is lord of these lands." As they turned to leave, Maglor could not take it anymore. He ran up to the orc's side.

"Please!" he called, as the orc paused and looked back at him with disgust, "please. What news have you of my brother? How fares he?"

The orc's hostile gaze raked him up and down, taking in his anxious expression and tense frame. "He is broken and beaten," the orc said satisfactorily, "He is chained every hour, beaten, knifed, choked and whipped." The orc grinned at Maglor's horrified expression. "His screams echo far down the halls, his blood stains the floor, and he shouts for you in his pain. Do not hold out much hope—your decision has surely been the death blow for him." Turning smugly away, he and his orcs spurred their wolves into a gallop, their figures melting away among the grass and browns of the landscape. Maglor stood, stunned, and watched them go. He hardly noticed his brothers step up beside him.

"I did not know," Maglor whispered, then turned back to camp. "I should not have asked."

"You wanted to know," Celegorm said simply, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"We...we made the right decision," Amras said shakily. "What could we have done?" Maglor shook his head and sighed deeply, straightening his shoulders.

"Well, I am going to look over our weapons again. We will need to strengthen our defenses now that we know Morgoth has not forgotten us," he said, waking back towards the tents and the dissolving company of soldiers.

"Well said," Caranthir said, "I shall look over how the soldiers are faring. I hope they are not annoyed with my hourly visits."

Amrod and Amras parted to check the maps and the lay of the land, looking for any holes in their defenses. Celegorm parted to look after the horses and cavalry. Maglor strode onwards, the sounds of the camp fading into the background.

He had never heard his brother scream, and was not even sure if he could imagine it. Visions of some cold and damp dungeon somewhere sprung to his mind, Maedhros crumpled, bloody and thin, in the corner, dark chains trailing from his hands and feet. Maglor shook his head, attempting to clear the images. Maedhros' words to him swept through his mind like the wind through the grasses: I will be safe, I promise you...


	5. Chapter 5

Huge, hacking coughs shook his body, his chest flexing excruciatingly, the sharp taste of blood ever present. His throat felt as if it had been torn to shreds, bloody saliva hanging from his mouth, bent almost double—as far as his chains would allow—and almost vomiting with the force of his heaves. It was miserable. Ever since he had finished the drowning session, sickness had taken him. His body was wracked with chills, then bouts of heat. No one aided him. No pity, no mercy ever came his way, long hours of being chained, alone in the dark, punctuated by torture sessions of beatings, knifing, whippings and hair-pulling. He knew why they liked to play with it. His hair was one of his most defining features, and they would abuse it as much as they could.

It hung, now, unwashed and dirty, over his shoulders and down his back. Long, tangled, and matted with blood and dirt, it was much darker than its original rich auburn. Maedhros through longingly of the wind playing with it, clean and straight, long and free. Lank strands trailing across his aching chest reminded him of the reality.

Groaning slightly, Maedhros rolled his shoulders and bent his neck, attempting to work out the soreness that blossomed there, but it was no use. They liked having him in this position, on his knees, arms outstretched and bound to the walls. His sense of time was gone, but he wondered who 'they' were, now. He had not seen Sauron or Morgoth for some time. It was strange how Sauron had dissolved into an almost comforting figure, for when he was present, Maedhros knew that he would not be fatally injured; but with his absence and only orcs to do as they pleased, fear bloomed within him. They could not be regulated.

Maedhros wondered why he had lasted for as long as he had. When would they tire of him, and simply put him out of his misery? Why had he not driven himself or been driven entirely insane? There was an interesting question. Maedhros had almost completely given up resisting. There were still moments, but they were fleeting and followed by much pain. Yet still he could think at least semi-coherently, and kept at least most of his wits about him. Why was this...and then, an idea came to him. He was resisting, merely be being here. What Morgoth and Sauron wanted was for him to completely crack, screaming for mercy and losing all sense of himself. By simple being here, by living, he was resisting. The thought was comforting.

He was taken by another bout of coughing, the door opening as he heaved. Through his coughs he cowered back from the light and sounds, low voices echoing against the stone walls.

"Hello, pet," a familiar voice said. Sickening relief flared in Maedhros' breast—it was Sauron. "It has been some time. Are you getting along well?" he asked mockingly, kneeling down to stare at him as he coughed.

"It—it's what it looks like," Maedhros gasped, swallowing a mouthful of bloody saliva.

"Are you asking for my help?" Sauron prompted, pity shining through his tone.

Maedhros had been waiting. At this point, he didn't care who aided him. "Yes, please, master. Help me," he said, his voice hoarse, brow furrowed.

"Very well," Sauron said, reaching up for a flask held by a waiting orc. "Drink."

Maedhros did as he was told, drinking deeply as it was held to his lips. He grimaced at the bitter taste, but the liquid soothed his aching throat and cleared the bloody taste from his mouth.

"That should take care of the coughing for a while now, pet, while we have other business." He pulled the flask away and handed it back to the orc, then tilted his head and searched Maedhros critically. "Gods...even broken like this I still want you," he sighed softly, eyes glinting.

The fight once again got the better of Maedhros. "Take me then," he said through gritted teeth, glaring up at him.

Sauron smiled and shook his head. "You are forgetting, pet, who is the master here. I will have you when I want; after all, the more beat up, the more bloody, the more twisted, the more hopeless you become, the more mine you are." He gently slid his hands over Maedhros' shoulders, then up his neck, his thumbs caressing his cheeks. "And by the looks of you, you have succumbed to me already." Leaning swiftly forwards, he pressed his lips to Maedhros', moving his head in circles as he kissed him, hard.

"Come on, pet, kiss me back," Sauron crooned against his mouth, which remained unmoving. Wrapping his hand in Maedhros' thick hair, he suddenly pulled his head back, causing him to gasp and arch into him. Quickly, Sauron pressed against him once again, slipping his tongue into his mouth and sighing against his lips. Maedhros hated himself for the way his body responded, faint desire beginning to grow in his chest. He found his lips moving, as well, his tongue rising to meet Sauron's, the kiss becoming a passionate battle for dominance. Sauron dragged at his hair, forcing his head back, and won the battle. He swiftly pulled his tongue back and bit down hard on Maedhros' bottom lip, earning a groan from his prisoner. Biting harder, he began to pull away, sucking on Maedhros' lip for as long as he could before ripping away and kissing his neck. Maedhros could no longer deny the desire that rose within him, but with it came disgust. He fought himself, hating every moment of it, as Sauron bit down on his neck, pressing his hips into him. He moved with it, brow furrowed in emotion and pleasure, but then cried out in pain as Sauron's teeth lengthened, breaking the skin and drawing blood. With an almost canine growl Sauron pulled back, a line of Maedhros' blood dripping from his mouth as a wolf's bite mark bled down Maedhros' chest. Maedhros stared at Sauron with fearful eyes.

"Love's not everything that it seems, isn't it?" Sauron mused, running a pinkie over his thigh. "But that goes for things beside romantic love, too, as you will soon see, pet. Understand?"

"Yes, master," Maedhros said submissively, bowing his head. What could this be about...

The orcs, at Sauron's motion, unclamped the shakles from his wrists and ankles, the metal stained with blood falling to the floor. It was wonderful not to have their painful weight dragging him down, and as the orcs pulled him to his feet and hustled him down the hallway, he found his steps to be lighter and easier. The pain in his chest was softening, his rattling breaths smoothing to a more even rhythm. The drink had filled his stomach, and Maedhros looked out at the stone hallways with clearer vision, Sauron's back moving in front of them. They were going up, he realized, a faint roaring beginning to echo in his ears.

Monsters began to fill the hallways, lining their path, howling and snapping at him, grinning and lashing out, but falling back before Sauron's strides. The orcs shielded Maedhros from the crowds, following quickly behind their lord. They were retracing their path, all those long, long months ago, Maedhros realized, the hallways and carvings growing familiar. Sure enough, with the bellows and roars of the monsters growing with each passing moment, they strode into the hall outside Morgoth's throne room. Turning the corner and walking confidently through the open doors, Sauron led the way down the pillared hall, which was lined with fearsome spectators, raucous and excited. A wide, clear path led to the throne, upon which Morgoth sat, larger and more terrible than Maedhros had ever seen him, towering and dark. Sauron halted before him.

"My Lord," he said imperiously, bowing deeply as the crowds hushed suddenly, "Maedhros, son of Feänor, as you requested."

"I thank you, Mairon," Morgoth said, his voice reverberating around the hushed room, power and malice heard in every syllable. He lifted a hand, and Sauron moved to stand by his side, the orcs pulling back from Maedhros, who lurched unsteadily upon his feet, then stood, tall and still, before the Dark Lord.

"Not long ago you stood before me, proud and strong, and look now what you have become," Morgoth rumbled, his piercing gaze causing Maedhros to tremble involuntarily. "Weak, bloody and broken, the king of the Nōldor reduced to only a shadow of his passing glory. We had to force you to your knees, then, but now I think it will be rather easy to get that same submission." A sharp shove from one of the orcs behind him upset his precarious balance, and Maedhros tumbled to the ground. Wicked laughter echoed in his ears as he lay on the ground, panting, back bent.

"Now, son of Feänor, let me tell you the reason I summoned you here." Morgoth paused as Maedhros raised himself onto his knees, breathing heavily but staring with defiant eyes at the Dark Lord. "Some time ago I sent an emissary to your brothers, offering your life in exchange for their departure. After my servants relayed my message, they weighed the value of your life. They weighed your life, princeling, and found it to be worth nothing." Morgoth's face twisted in a smile. "They refused you, left you here alone, forsaken by the only ones who would look you in the eye. Cast aside by those whom you thought loved you, no more than a pebble beneath their boots. You are abandoned by those whose stomachs now twist with disgust and their faces with hatred at the mention of your name. Rather than living in your fairy world with yourself enthroned upon a seat of gold, your brothers at your side, you are in your rightful place: bowing before me, on your knees in the dirt." He grinned wickedly, his eyes glinting with malice. "Your brothers have forsaken you. They all have forsaken you."

Maedhros' thoughts spun. "You lie," he whispered, then shouted it louder. "You lie!"

"I assure you, princeling, what I say is the truth," Morgoth said mildly, spreading a hand, "We have proof." An orc stationed at the foot of his throne suddenly stepped forwards, scarred and huge, holding something in his roughened hands.

"I was given this as a token of their decision," the orc said, splaying out the piece of fabric. Maedhros felt his heart sink within his chest. It was a banner of fine, dark red cloth, the white Feänorian star carefully stitched upon the center. No, it couldn't have been true, he could have stolen it—

"You could have stolen it," Maedhros said aloud, masking his fear. "I still have reason to doubt you."

Morgoth once again motioned to the orc. "Your brother, the fair haired one, retrieved this from the guards with them. He handed it to me, surrounded by the rest of your brothers, two red, and three dark. We are not so low that we would steal such a small trifle."

"And yet you had no problem stealing the greatest works of my father," Maedhros spat, glaring to Morgoth. His mind spun in desperate confusion.

"Watch your tongue, princeling," the Dark Lord said, lightning flickering around the base of his throne as he leaned forwards, "remember who is your master here."

Gods, no. It couldn't be true. They would never, never, leave him here. Gods, no, they wouldn't! Terribly, images began to form in his mind, of faces hardened against him, cold gazes at the mention of his name, hateful words on their tongues as they conversed. Fears began to flood him—gods, they knew they were better off without him, that he was weak, and they were happy that he was out of their way. They would never want him back—he was a thorn in their sides, their weak link—getting rid of him only made them stronger—

"No," Maedhros whispered aloud, attempting to curb the waves of disbelief coursing through him. They had refused him, and refused Morgoth's terms. Terms, terms—it had to have been something with the terms—

"What were the terms?" Maedhros called, desperation creasing his brow.

"Does it matter?" Morgoth thundered, the floor shaking beneath them, "You are abandoned, every last hope depleted, and with every last tie cut, you are now entirely my own." He rose, restrained power resonating in his every move, each step down towards him shaking the walls of the throne room. "I can do whatever I like to you, beat you, maim you, and no one will care. Believe me, little king, when I say to you that I will have you on your knees begging for mercy before an hour passes. You, Maedhros, son of Feänor, are now...all mine." Staring down at him, Maedhros fought in vain the horrid realization dawning in his breast—he was now completely alone—no one wanted him, now. There was no one to save him, nothing standing between him and death.

Morgoth seized him by the throat and drew him upwards, lifting him off the ground. Dropping him to land unsteadily on his feet, clutching at his neck, Morgoth swept around Maedhros, raising his arms to the crowds surrounding them.

"All hail Maedhros, king of the Nõldor!" he thundered, the multitude of monsters raising their voices to deafening levels to scream with him. "Hail, Maedhros! Hail, the king of the Nōldor! Hail, hail!"

Maedhros stared helplessly around him, the echoes weighing on his shoulders like rocks. No one to save him—no one, no one—

"Of course, he looks a little bedraggled for a king," Morgoth sneered, motioning to some of the orcs lining the pathway, "Maybe we should help you clean yourself up!" Suddenly, a bucket of cold water was flung upon him, and Maedhros staggered backwards from the liquid, dripping and gasping. So, so cold—another stream of water hit him in the face, and he fell back again, blinking furiously to clear his vision. His breaths came hard and fast, the taunts of the monsters echoing in his head.

"More," Morgoth ordered, and streams of water hit Maedhros from all directions as orcs tossed their buckets at him. Once-dried blood and grime darkened the water to almost black, streams running down his chest and legs in dirty channels. His hair was soaked, the constant splashing of water washing the grime away. Eventually he fell to his knees, letting himself be doused with the freezing buckets, his mind spinning helplessly with the cold and shock. Clean skin was soon revealed, the red welts and still-healing scratches standing out starkly on his thin, white frame. Drawing ragged breaths when he could, water streamed from his face as he bent forwards, gasping, rivers pouring down his nose and lips. Another harsh splash of water to the side of his head caused him to splutter for breath, reeling to the side. His wet hair was plastered across his back, and though he was freezing and terrified, Maedhros reveled in the sensation of being mostly clean, for the first time in months. Soon, the dousing ceased, Maedhros dripping wet, shivering and gasping, on the stone floor. Liquid pooled around him, dark with dirt and blood. Morgoth towered before him.

"Clean enough for a king of your caliber," he said disdainfully, "It is truly a shame that you cannot wash your honor clean, as well! But all kings should be given at least a chance at a fair fight, should they not?" Morgoth said, lifting his chin. He turned suddenly, striding back towards his throne, then whirled to face Maedhros. "Stand up, Feänorion, stand up and face me!" he hissed tauntingly, eyes flashing. "Rise up and reclaim your own! Here is your chance to steal what is rightfully yours!"

Maedhros' head spun, anger rising in his chest to match Morgoth's taunts. He could take everything, he could try to take everything, but Maedhros would still fight, still rise to face his challenge. What little did he have left? What did he have now to lose? Lurching to his feet, Maedhros widened his stance, his now-auburn hair still dripping water down his shoulders. A fierce glare twisted his face, and though he was beaten and thin, the monsters' cheering faltered and even Morgoth's heart was fearful. Though he had been so thoroughly broken and battered he was hardly recognizable, Maedhros had risen to fight again, though there was no hope of winning. A light shone in his eyes that had not been there for many months. 

Morgoth recovered himself quickly. "Well, little Feänorion, or as my lieutenant likes to call you, pet," he spat, "come show me your teeth and claws. Show me why they call—pardon, called you a great warrior. Take the Silmarils from my crown. Come on." Maedhros' breathing grew faster, a snarl twisting his lip, adrenaline coursing through him. He stood steady on his feet, now, and carefully weighed his options. Feinting was his best option—Morgoth was large and strong, but most likely slow. If Maedhros kept his speed, he could dart under Morgoth's blows to behind him, snatching the crown from behind. The familiar rush of battle flowed through his veins, and anger fueled his motions. With a growl, Maedhros leapt at Morgoth, who, in a move so swift many did not see it, smashed an iron fist into his temple, sending him reeling backwards. Stars flashed dangerously before Maedhros' eyes, pain coursing through his head. He moved his jaw to check for brokenness and found nothing, whirling to face Morgoth again. The laughs of the monsters and the wide grin of Morgoth enraged him, and he leapt forwards again, the Dark Lord purposely slowing his punches so that Maedhros could duck under them. Hope and fierce pride thrumming within him, Maedhros made to dash around his back, but with an almost lazy swing, Morgoth caught him in the chest. He stumbled back again, laughter ringing in his ears, his raging hatred dimming slightly. Maedhros charged again, swiping aside Morgoth's arm to plant a quick but solid punch on his cheek before darting away again. Morgoth bent slightly, hate darkening his eyes as he turned back to Maedhros.

"Try me again, little king," he growled. The spark of hope that had been kindled inside Maedhros was extinguished, but still he rushed forwards, only to be thrown back. Again and again he was beaten down. His anger melted into hopelessness, his charges fruitless and weak. Morgoth began to grow tired of him, and soon threw hard him to the ground. Panting, with desperate fear shining in his eyes, Maedhros attempted to rise back up, but Morgoth kicked him back to the floor. Strength sapped and hope depleted, Maedhros stirred feebly before Morgoth threw him into his stomach and planted a crushing knee on his back.

"I think that's enough," Morgoth said mockingly, his weight smashing Maedhros to the floor. He couldn't draw breath, gods—he couldn't—a strangled cry left his mouth as he felt one of his ribs crack, Morgoth grinning and dark above him. "Your brothers were correct in refusing you. With such fighting skills as those, it is a wonder you did not fall merely standing in the presence of an opposing army. A king with no kingdom, no people, no family, no gods, no honor, no pride—" he leaned closer, Maedhros almost sobbing beneath him, "—no wealth; the only crown he has is his fire-colored locks, and he does not even deserve that." Morgoth ran a hand through his long hair, the damp red strands tangling against he fingers. Grasping his hair suddenly, Morgoth pulled his head back, hard, causing him to open his mouth and arch with the pain and force. Twisting his hand more fully in the auburn tangles, Morgoth jerked his head back further, then threw him forwards onto the stone floor.

"Shave him," he growled darkly to the orcs looked eargerly on. A scream of delight rose up from the delighted observers, and there was hardly a moment for Maedhros to draw an excruciating breath before they were upon him. Large orcs straddles his hips and back, pinning his body down with their weight while hands from all directions snatched at a handful of auburn hair. They did not care if their careless knives sliced through skin as well, Maedhros crying out in pain, his head jerked in every direction. Warm blood seeped down his scalp from errant knives, his head growing lighter and lighter, handfuls of auburn hair drifting to the floor about him. His face was twisted with pain, pleading helplessness etched in his expression, eyes shut tightly. Against his will, tears began to trail down his face, the orcs finally letting him go, their weight lifting off of him. Morgoth's shadow fell over him, shivering and half sobbing on the stone floor, curled around himself. With a sharp kick and a push, Morgoth brought him to his knees, no long curtain of hair to shield his tears from the raucous audience. Sliding a hand under his chin and jerking his head upright, Morgoth's piercing gaze inspected him.

"Mmm..." he mused, eyes sliding over his cut-up face and shorn locks. Whereas just minutes ago it once fell, long and thick, down his back and past his waist, now it was choppy and short, barely a few inches long. Morgoth smiled wickedly. "A king without a crown. A king with nothing. But then again, if a king has nothing, he is not a king. He is nothing. A weak, useless nobody, too vain to admit his own stupidity. If a king is only a king by his own tongue, he is less than the lowest who serve him. You are only fit to cower in the dirt, weak and broken, because that is what you are. Our pet, now, isn't that right, Mairon?"

Sauron stepped down lightly behind Morgoth, smiling pleasantly. "Most correct, My Lord," he said smoothly.

"Now repeat after me," Morgoth said, "I am the pet of Morgoth, and I beg for you to hurt me, for that is what I deserve." Maedhros sat still, shaking and breathing shallowly, his ribs screaming with every move. Utter devastation rocked him. Scourge of his brothers, alone, abandoned. Hopeless. Weak.

"Come on now, we learned this not long ago," Sauron prompted softly, "or are you just too stupid to understand?"

"Come on. Say it: I am the pet of Morgoth, and I beg for you to hurt me, for that is what I deserve."

Maedhros' lips moved weakly, no sound emerging from them, his eyes wide with fear.

"Louder," Morgoth said dangerously, causing him to flinch backwards.

"I am..." Maedhros began hoarsely, his ribs fighting every word, "I am the p-pet—" he stumbled, his lips trembling, but he swallowed with a grimace and continued. "I am the pet of Morgoth, and I beg for you to hurt me, for that is what I deserve."

"With emotion," Morgoth ordered, rising.

Maedhros trembled in the Dark Lord's shadow. "I am the pet of Morgoth, and I beg for you to hurt me, for that is what I deserve," he said, hopelessness bleeding through.

"Not good enough," Morgoth said, turning back to his throne.

"I am the pet of Morgoth, and I beg for you to hurt me," Maedhros said, his voice rising, "for that is what I deserve."

"Again."

Maedhros repeated it again, panic beginning to grip him, his breathing growing faster, though his pain grew with it.

"Again!" Morgoth thundered, seating himself in his throne.

"I am the pet of Morgoth, and I beg for you to hurt me, for that is what I deserve!" Maedhros shouted desperately, leaning forwards pleadingly.

"Again!" Morgoth roared, his power, deep and terrible, resounding through the room, the floor quaking angrily beneath them. Lightning flashed around the base of his throne. Panic tore through Maedhros.

"I am the pet of Morgoth, and I beg for you to hurt me, for that is what I deserve!" Maedhros screamed wildly, throwing himself at the foot of the throne. "Gods—please, I am begging you, please...gods please," he sobbed, prostrate before the Dark Lord. "Hurt me, please, master—hurt me—end me, please, gods, please!"

Morgoth glanced satisfactorily to Sauron, who smiled back, Maedhros' wrenching sobs and pleas echoing through the silent hall.

"See, I told you that when you begged for me to hurt you, I would consider mercy," Sauron said, walking down the stairs, "and you really are stupid enough to ask for that. Well, now that you want pain, I will give you the mercy that you so craved." He looked to the orcs lining the path, who waited eagerly for his word. "Chain him," Sauron ordered cooly. Once again they leapt upon him, Maedhros listless and sobbing, his breathing shallow and face twisted from the pain.

Chain after chain was thrown over him—around his neck, wrists, arms, waist, ankles, neck again—the weight dragging him down, the black links biting into his skin. At Sauron's motion, they pulled him stumbling forwards, but he hardly noticed. He was crushed. Everything was gone. Everything was taken from him. He had nothing left to lose, nothing left but his own life, and in that moment, he wished for it to be gone, too. Wished that they would take it honorably from him rather than keeping him alive, life hateful to him, as it meant now more pain, more suffering.

His brothers no longer cared for him, and Fingon's words echoed in his mind.

"I hate you!"

"Weak!"

"I am a murderer."

"—Sauron's whore—"

"Coward!"

"I hate you!"

"Traitor!"

"Deluder!"

"I hate you!"

They chained his wrists together once more, fastening him to the wall of the cell, his arms over his head. Sauron stepped close, smiling at his heaving sobs and fearful eyes.

"You just want to rest, now, don't you?" he said gently, his tone soft and comforting.

"Yes, master," Maedhros gasped.

Sauron's face twisted in a smile. "Well, that's too bad, pet. You aren't going to be getting any sleep for a long time, now." He motioned to a heavyset orc, who grinned at him and cracked the long, two-tailed whip he held. "Enjoy your wakefulness!"

"No, wait, master, please—" Maedhros panted, pleading, but Sauron swept out the door with a laugh. Maedhros was left alone with the orc, who already watched him with critical black eyes.

Maedhros shut his eyes, grimacing with pain, and took stock of himself. His breath hissed through his teeth in shallow, hitching gasps, the left side of his chest beginning to swell. A broken rib, he knew. There were trickles of warm blood running down his scalp, cuts burning. He hurt in all the normal places, aching and bruised. Lowering his eyes to the floor, Maedhros carefully tried to slow his breathing. He clenched his abs, cautiously breathing in as deeply as he could. His chest expanded, but a bolt of pain shot through his ribs and he bit back a groan. Carefully trying again, he evened his breaths, first shallowly, then to something deeper. Cautiously falling into a sort of tentative rhythm, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. Despite his pain, he could feel his muscles relaxing. His breaths steadied, his spinning thoughts slowing. Sleep was all he wanted, now.

The whip bit sharply across his chest, causing him to start and sending another bolt of pain through him. His breaths dissolved back into shallow gasps, his eyes wide.

"No sleep here, filth," the orc growled at him, "Don't forget that." Maedhros shot him a glare.

"How can I when you will not let me?" he panted. The orc growled at him again and stepped up to his side, Maedhros immediately regretting his remark. The orc delivered a solid punch to his gut, causing him to crumple and cough for air, his broken rib bending excruciatingly. The large, hacking coughs had returned, and his throat grated against itself, Maedhros' ribs screaming with pain every breath he took. Desperately he tried to stop heaving, but the pain in his ribs only made him cough harder. He bent over as far as the chains would allow, dragging at the shackles, his back shaking with coughs. Blood splattered the floor under where he bent, red filling his mouth and dripping down his lips. There was nothing he could do to stop—his stomach curdled as if to vomit, his mouth filling with saliva. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but soon, his coughs faded to shaky breaths, his eyes wide with pain and shock. His chest ached with the force of his faded coughs, the broken rib causing the flesh to swell painfully around the snap. For a while he hung there, shaky and weak, blood and saliva still dripping from his mouth.

He watched the small droplets fall to the floor, the red liquid splashing into perfect circles below him. It steadied him, slowing his breathing back down, the perfect drip, drip of blood on the stone strangely comforting. Maedhros drew himself back upright. The orc watched him with a grin. Resolving himself to fight through his tangled thoughts, Maedhros let his eyes unfocus and muscles relax. He needed to come to terms with what had happened to him, or there would be no possibility of him holding out any longer.

Terms. There had to be something with the terms. His brothers would never abandon him. Never. Maedhros was sure of that. What had Morgoth said... if they would leave, Maedhros would be returned to them? He doubted that that was Morgoth's only wish. More than likely he had asked for them to sacrifice something to him, or to give up the oath. Yes, that was more plausible. Still, though, you do not know that for certain, he reminded himself. Yes, his mind whispered, for all you know, Morgoth was telling the truth! They did have the banner, after all. Maglor's words echoed in his head: Why do you think you reached the way you did to our taunts? Because you knew it was true, Fingon answered.

You knew it was true.

They had proved it, twice now. Once with fakes, once for real. They had uncovered his fears and exploited them. No one loved him. No one wanted him. He would be left here, alone. No one loved him. He felt his eyes begin to close, sadness creasing his brow. The whip cracked across his shoulders once again, but Maedhros bit his tongue and held back his cry, avoiding dissolving into coughs again.

You know, deep down, that you deserve this.

Maedhros wondered why he did not, or had not, fought back more. Why had he not fought them every step down the hallway, or made them wrestle him into his chains?

You know, deep down...

Terribly, horribly, he realized that Sauron was right. He deserved his pain. Every bit of it. Some part of him had leaned into it, reveling in the physical manifestation of his inner turmoil. With his brothers, he had needed to hide his tears, for nothing outwardly was wrong. Now, though, he poured that pain outward, a real, visceral reason for him to scream and cry and beg. Yes, he did deserve this, this pain. For what he did, and what he felt. His brothers were right to leave him there. He was too weak and broken to aid them, a traitor to their people and a usurper to the throne. Yes, gods yes, he deserved his pain.

...you deserve this pain.

Another slash from the whip startled him back to wakefulness.


End file.
